Thanks to everyone who's been so consistant in complimenting this story, it wouldn't
be so frequently updated if you loyal fans didn't offer up reviews now and then. ^^;
It's like Christmas, having someone comment on a story you're proud of. Now, I know my little grateful comments aren't
that interesting, so I'll cut straight to the next Wolfwood-abusing chapter of 'To Love A Lie'.
~Tomo, whose muse has violent tendencies
~~~~
Under the dog star sail
Over the reefs of moonshine
Under the skies of fall
North, north west, the stones of Faroe
Under the Arctic fire
Over the seas of silence
Hauling on frozen ropes
For all my days remaining
But would north be true?
[Why should I cry for you? - Sting]
~~~~
Vash's gun in the dusty ground with a dull thump, leaving Wolfwood's hands free to shake and tremble as he returned the blonde's gaze. Nothing was said for a long moment, then Vash closed his eyes and whispered breathily, dragging the word out into a question. "....where....?"
Wolfwood opened his mouth and closed it, trying to force the words he needed to say from between locked lips, though the site of Vash's broken body had robbed him of such precious eloquency. After a moment of troublesome stalling, he managed to whisper a response, though his voice sounded strange and rough to his own ears, more than a little scared. "The bottom of the canyon. How did you survive, ton-" he caught himself. Such familiarities were not allowed, because they were not the same. Lamely Wolfwood cleared his throat and finished lamely. "...Vash?"
"Dunno." Vash coughed softly, his entire body still save for the wracked expression of his face. It melted between dispair and terror, though Wolfwood fancied he saw a spark of hope when Vash stared into his eyes. "Can you...flip me over?"
"Your....Vash, your neck is broken." God, it hurt to say that. "Moving you will just make it worse."
"No...if you move...me... I can heal," the man said, his eyes unfocused and trained on Wolfwood's hand where it lay next to his head. "It just has to be close to right, you know?"
The priest swallowed suspiciously and shook his head - he had seen injuries this bad before, and nobody *ever* survived them. How had Vash managed to live after a fall like that? He couldn't be immortal - inhuman, yes, but immortal? Wolfwood nibbled on his own lip cautiously, reaching out to cup Vash's head in his left hand - that simple movement made the blonde hiss in pain, and Wolfwood sat back, unwilling to continue. He would damage something permanantly - as if this wasn't - if he tried to move Vash any further!
The blonde's hands were twitching and moving slightly, like dying insects against the grainy ground. "Please? Please, Nick?"
Nick. Nobody ever called him Nick. Well...one somebody. But she didn't count.
The dead don't count.
"You.... have to trust me..." aquamarine pools were half-lidded in the pre-dawn gloom, and Wolfwood bit his lip, shaking his head to clear the tempting orbs from his mental vision. Giving in now....
"Ton-...Vash, you don't know what you're talking about. That'll kill ya!"
"No!" Vash paused and groaned as if something within him was twisted - Wolfwood swallowed grimly and supposed that wasn't too far from the truth. "You know I'm... different.... you have to trust me now...please....Nick? Please? I..." the blonde closed his eyes, and for a moment Wolfwood started forward, heart leaping into his throat and a prayer springing to his lips **- please, Vash, open your eyes. Just let me stare into them without tearing myself up inside, just once-** But the eyes opened again, and now they were full of suspicious tears that threatened to break free.
Droplets spilled down the pale cheek bones, disappearing beneath the torn, smudged cotton overshirt as Vash turned his head slightly, breath catching in his throat - his very expression simply radiated pain that was far too sharp to be bearable. The pattern of slick trailing rivers that outlined the contours of the face beneath him was mesmerizing, the priest found himself staring, his mouth suddenly dry at the innocence beneath him, pure and almost tangible.
"I don't...want to die. I'm scared, Nick."
Wolfwood's resistance gave a giant heave, and for a moment he leaned forward, fully intending to take Vash's lips and release him from his pain in one quick movement of heavily calloused hands. The gun in his grimy fingers felt alien, so different was it than his normal weapon, but Wolfwood didn't let that stop him - he pressed the barrel against Vash's temple and sighed softly, their noses mere inches apart. He could have counted the thin eyelashes if he had so desired, could have numbered off the tears that were standing out against the dimples in his skin. "I can make it go away," Even to Wolfwood, his voice sounded hollow and regretful - what was he saying? "All you have to do is ask."
For a heart-stopping moment Wolfwood thought Vash was going to say yes, so great was the agony written across his face. For the space of a breath the priest thought he was honestly going to have to extinguish the light within the man beneath him - and he almost cried. Almost.
"No. Just roll me over. If you're so sure I'll die..." Vash's voice was little more than a sigh as it brushed across the priest's face, "then let me die watching the sun rise."
Later Wolfwood could not imagine how he had found the strength to spring back into action, let alone the forethought to make the preperations he did after performing Vash's request. Almost of his body's own accord he climbed back up the towering wall, barely feeling the bleeding of his knuckles and the sharp ache between his shoulderblades as he moved. At the top he scoured the area, found the wrapping of his cross punisher draped around a stone, discovered Vash's spare clothing, searched fruitlessly for their bike, and then made his way to the corpses nearby.
Before he really knew what he had done, he was slicing chunks of flesh off the nearest sandworm and wrapping them up in a length of cloth, then forcing them into the bottom of Vash's luggage bag. There were two bedrolls tangled together at the base of a nearby boulder, so the priest wrapped stones in them and dropped them off the edge of the cliff. He then discovered the leather straps he usually kept locked around his cross, and strung them together to make a sizable rope, then roamed about and found one precious canteen of water, which he didn't partake of, merely hooked it to the rest of the geat and sighed thoughtfully.
"Don't stop," the priest ordered himeself, clenching his fists. "If you stop you'll lose your energy." It was frighteningly true - Wolfwood was running, so to say, on nothing more than pure adrenaline, and when that gave out his injuries and strained muscles would make movement unbearable. With a heavy sigh he began to descend, the pack painfully heavy on his shoulders and the rope securing his package to his back busy biting into the soft underbelly of his body.
A little more than halfway down his muscles began to lock up all at once, clenching bitterly whenever the black-clad man ordained to move. Gritting his knife in his teeth, Wolfwood leaned forward and let his feet probe below for another hold, his calves stiff and disobediant as he strained. There was a strong step beneath him, one big enough for a moment of relaxation, and Wolfwood took it without hesitating.
When it broke out from beneath him, the priest fell backwards, fingers scrabbling clumsily at the rapidly distancing wall, seeking some sort of purchase and finding none. He fell a good three stories before fate stepped in, and the leather rope dangling from his pack snagged against a boulder and lodged there. Wolfwood was jerked back by the waist and he nearly sobbed in pain, back bending sharply and then springing back up and slamming into the cliff face. He felt dizzy, nausious - and indeed, as he struggled and failed to loosen the rope around his torso, a nagging, heaving sensation in the back of his throat pressed forward. The priest clung to the wall and threw up all remains of edible substances in his body then feebly pawed at the rope around his waist.
It was strangling him, wringing the life out of his body as he swung thirty yarz above the canyon floor. Sparks appeared on the back of the priest's closed eyelids, and when he opened them again, red was tinging his vision - he knew that red too well, it was the color of blood, the color of death.
Vash was somewhere down there below. Somewhere, laying with his eyes open, staring at the faint color of the sky sandwiched between two walls of solid, endless pale stone. And he needed help - that thought was enough to make Wolfwood cling all the more tightly to the wall before him... Because there was a chance of Vash living. Maybe never being the same - but then, he wasn't human. Could a...a whatever-Vash-was survive a fall like that? It seemed so unlikely that Wolfwood almost gave into despair-
No. **You got yourself into this, now get yourself out. He doesn't matter at all, just survive. Make sure he's dead and keep moving, you're sure to be saved. After all, someone always, always steps in right in the nick of time. Right?**
Nick. Vash had called him Nick. The priest smiled slightly as that name echoed in his mind, his cheek pressed against hard, packed dirt.
Moments later the rope gave way and he plummetted again, blacking out upon contact with the ground.
~~~~
All colors bleed to red
Asleep on the ocean's bed
Drifting in empty seas
For all my days remaining
But would north be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Dark angels follow me
Over a godless sea
Mountains of endless falling,
For all my days remaining,
What would be true?
~~~~
"It's a little sad, don't you think?" Vash asked softly, breath ghosting across the shell of Wolfwood's ear, cradeled by warm, quiet breath. It licked along his shoulder and escaped with a soft, lingering hiss.
Wolfwood blinked lazily in response. "What?"
"Aren't you sad that you can't tell the truth?"
That sounded like a question, rather than a softly whispered statement. Wolfwood turned and pressed his forehead to Midvalley's, opening his mouth to reply. The musician shifted slightly and pulled his warmth away, leaving Wolfwood to walk alone, his step limping and his breath hissing quietly between his teeth as pain stung every muscle in his body, ethreal and detached from his consciousness. "There is no truth." Wolfwood whispered as transparant fingertips teased across his cheekbones. Ghosts swirled around him, intangible, almost invisible, but maddeningly ever-present, soft wraiths of white and gold, and the occasional blue-green puff of pastel smoke. They danced and twirled like the ashes of a cigarette on their way spiralling to the floor.
The woman was running from him, through the fields. Wolfwood began to stride, then job, then flee in terror as the waving yellow grasses played at his heels, snagging and tripping him. He went down in a blur of yellow and black, then rolled over against the man next to him, distracted.
Golden hair against his fingertips, soft and yielding, petals of shining sun against his body, the glancing touches more powerful than he had ever imagined, like ice that burned with an intensity that was almost blinding. Kisses that were more than enough to send Wolfwood under, drowning in the sheer power of opalescent aquamarine, all of his aphorisms crumbling beneath the heady gaze.
Vash licked his lips and smiled slightly, the upturning of his lips enough to tempt Wolfwood into another try. The priest lodged his love against a wall that hadn't been there moments before, claiming the lips before him as his own, refusing to share. As he kissed, drank, shared his soul with the man beneath him, a soft, repeating prayer arose in the back of his mind and performed a sweeping crescendo until it could not be ignored.
"Flirting with death, you're flirting with death, you're dancing with denial-"
Legato was whispering soft screams in his ears, his hands running down the lapel of Wolfwood's wrinkled suit, playing with the thin, chea pbuttons. The priest shook his head and bucked back, though his body didn't - couldn't, wouldn't resond to his mental commands - getawaygetawaygetaway! Legato's fingers, one hand harsh and warm, one palm as gentle and cool as ice, coaxing responses that Wolfwood couldn't bear to hear.
"Dancing, dancing-" the fingertips slid lower and lower, longer and longer, until they were thin, whip-like, snaking in tight loops around Wolfwood's ankles. The priest kicked, shouted-
"STOP IT!"
Breath against his neck, a tongue slipping down his shoulderblade and pushing him downwards. "Kissing the devil-"
"LEAVE ME ALONE!"
A mantra, again and again, while Wolfwood clung to his gun, like a talisman against the evil behind him. Somehow he lifted it, somehow he fired, screaming all the while, and Vash fell to the ground before him, hands outstretched as blood blossomed beneath him. "Flirting, flirting-"
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!" Wolfwood bit down hard on his own lip and fell to his knees, hands raised to stem the flow of gold down his chin. Lifting his hands, he captured it and struggled to pull it back to him, close and tight, the liquid turning to pale, washed out straw when it touched his chest.
Knives was purring in his arms, coiled like a snake, like a tiger, prepared to bite with ferocity that could not be rivaled. His lazy promise tickled Wolfwood's ears as they kissed, as Vash kissed him, as Knives and Vash pulled away, beyond his reach, owning one another. "Mine. He's mine. He's mine. He's mine. He's-"
~~~~
The priest's eyes snapped open, and he stared up at the sky, unaware of anything but the lingering dream and a small stone that was jabbing harshly into his shoulder. "Fuck," he whispered softly. "I'm going fucking crazy."
With those thoughtful words, Wolfwood lay there for another ten minutes against the hard ground, trying to summon up the strength of will to actually move his sprawled limbs. When said mental courage had been achieved, every inch of his body was aching in the most unpleasant of manners, screaming in protest as he hauled himself to his feet. The leather band wrapped around his waist lit his body on fire as Wolfwood staggered to a standing position, leaning dangerously to one side as he began walking, dragging himself onwards with gritted teeth.
It was natural to be scared for his 'friend', especially considering how close he wanted to be to Vash. But still, Nicholas D. Wolfwood had a vague idea, with his blurry vision and bleeding body, of exactly how insane he was becoming. The fact that whether he lived or died *did not matter* was frightening, in the same way the fact that one Vash the Stampede's current status was all he was breathing for made him want to curl up and die...
Definately insane. He dropped himself next to the blonde, barely standing for long enough to meet Vash's weak smile and then unhook the belt around his waist. "I got...stuff," the priest hissed, pulling at the bag next to him and opening it. His head was pounding in need of sleep, but he refused to give in, at least not until Vash had been taken care of. After all, he was the one with the broken neck. "Are ya alright?"
The voice wasn't pleading, just overwhelmingly exhausted, but Wolfwood couldn't bear the haunted look in the eyes that were regarding him. "Cold..." Vash whispered, quietly.
The priest fumbled for a blanket and extracted one of the two sleeping rolls he had discovered with trembling hands. Vash hadn't moved at all while he had been gone, the priest noticed, but he was turning his head with more ease now, his expression was less pained. Could he really be healing that quickly, or was he slipping away from life, into a hopefully painless void?
"Where did you go?" Vash asked, though Wolfwood felt certain that the older man already knew where he had been and what he had found.
"To the top. I got...meat. I should start a fire." **Can't rest just yet, gotta make sure we have food. And then...then...**
"Water?"
"A little."
Vash's face looked concerned, though his eyes were still hazed over with a miasma of agony. "The bike?" he asked, lips dry.
"Didn't see it." Wolfwood dragged himself up and limped to the other side of their 'area', the clearing between massive stones that they had landed in. It wouldn't be necessary to move soon, at least... He found enough firestarting material and managed to recover a match from the bag, starting it up with a long suffuring sigh. Moments later the worm meat had been forced to the side of the fire, close enough to cook but not burn, as Wolfwood intended on passing out for several days if at all possible.
Vash's eyes were closed when the priest was ready to say goodnight - growling, Wolfwood stalked over to the blonde, shoved back the sleeping roll, and crawled down next to him, too tired to even notice the cool temperature of Vash's body. Settling on his stomach, the priest spit out a mouthful of dirt and closed his eyes - sleep hit him like a ton of proverbial bricks. With a sigh that was half a hiccup and half a sob, Wolfwood's thundercloud eyes disappeared behind heavy lips, and his darkly bruised, encrusted lips parted slightly as dreams immediately beset him.
As Wolfwood slept, Vash the Stampede watched him with curious aquamarine eyes, the bones in his neck re-knitting with alarming speed even as he contemplated his paradox of a companion. The humanoid Typhoon gave Wolfwood a long, gaurdedly appraising look, then evidently discarded what he had learned, closing his eyes and joining the other man in slumber.
~~~~
Sometimes I see your face,
The stars seem to lose their place
Why must I think of you?
Why must I?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Why would you want me to?
And what would it mean to say,
That, "I loved you in my fashion"?
What would be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
~~~~
be so frequently updated if you loyal fans didn't offer up reviews now and then. ^^;
It's like Christmas, having someone comment on a story you're proud of. Now, I know my little grateful comments aren't
that interesting, so I'll cut straight to the next Wolfwood-abusing chapter of 'To Love A Lie'.
~Tomo, whose muse has violent tendencies
~~~~
Under the dog star sail
Over the reefs of moonshine
Under the skies of fall
North, north west, the stones of Faroe
Under the Arctic fire
Over the seas of silence
Hauling on frozen ropes
For all my days remaining
But would north be true?
[Why should I cry for you? - Sting]
~~~~
Vash's gun in the dusty ground with a dull thump, leaving Wolfwood's hands free to shake and tremble as he returned the blonde's gaze. Nothing was said for a long moment, then Vash closed his eyes and whispered breathily, dragging the word out into a question. "....where....?"
Wolfwood opened his mouth and closed it, trying to force the words he needed to say from between locked lips, though the site of Vash's broken body had robbed him of such precious eloquency. After a moment of troublesome stalling, he managed to whisper a response, though his voice sounded strange and rough to his own ears, more than a little scared. "The bottom of the canyon. How did you survive, ton-" he caught himself. Such familiarities were not allowed, because they were not the same. Lamely Wolfwood cleared his throat and finished lamely. "...Vash?"
"Dunno." Vash coughed softly, his entire body still save for the wracked expression of his face. It melted between dispair and terror, though Wolfwood fancied he saw a spark of hope when Vash stared into his eyes. "Can you...flip me over?"
"Your....Vash, your neck is broken." God, it hurt to say that. "Moving you will just make it worse."
"No...if you move...me... I can heal," the man said, his eyes unfocused and trained on Wolfwood's hand where it lay next to his head. "It just has to be close to right, you know?"
The priest swallowed suspiciously and shook his head - he had seen injuries this bad before, and nobody *ever* survived them. How had Vash managed to live after a fall like that? He couldn't be immortal - inhuman, yes, but immortal? Wolfwood nibbled on his own lip cautiously, reaching out to cup Vash's head in his left hand - that simple movement made the blonde hiss in pain, and Wolfwood sat back, unwilling to continue. He would damage something permanantly - as if this wasn't - if he tried to move Vash any further!
The blonde's hands were twitching and moving slightly, like dying insects against the grainy ground. "Please? Please, Nick?"
Nick. Nobody ever called him Nick. Well...one somebody. But she didn't count.
The dead don't count.
"You.... have to trust me..." aquamarine pools were half-lidded in the pre-dawn gloom, and Wolfwood bit his lip, shaking his head to clear the tempting orbs from his mental vision. Giving in now....
"Ton-...Vash, you don't know what you're talking about. That'll kill ya!"
"No!" Vash paused and groaned as if something within him was twisted - Wolfwood swallowed grimly and supposed that wasn't too far from the truth. "You know I'm... different.... you have to trust me now...please....Nick? Please? I..." the blonde closed his eyes, and for a moment Wolfwood started forward, heart leaping into his throat and a prayer springing to his lips **- please, Vash, open your eyes. Just let me stare into them without tearing myself up inside, just once-** But the eyes opened again, and now they were full of suspicious tears that threatened to break free.
Droplets spilled down the pale cheek bones, disappearing beneath the torn, smudged cotton overshirt as Vash turned his head slightly, breath catching in his throat - his very expression simply radiated pain that was far too sharp to be bearable. The pattern of slick trailing rivers that outlined the contours of the face beneath him was mesmerizing, the priest found himself staring, his mouth suddenly dry at the innocence beneath him, pure and almost tangible.
"I don't...want to die. I'm scared, Nick."
Wolfwood's resistance gave a giant heave, and for a moment he leaned forward, fully intending to take Vash's lips and release him from his pain in one quick movement of heavily calloused hands. The gun in his grimy fingers felt alien, so different was it than his normal weapon, but Wolfwood didn't let that stop him - he pressed the barrel against Vash's temple and sighed softly, their noses mere inches apart. He could have counted the thin eyelashes if he had so desired, could have numbered off the tears that were standing out against the dimples in his skin. "I can make it go away," Even to Wolfwood, his voice sounded hollow and regretful - what was he saying? "All you have to do is ask."
For a heart-stopping moment Wolfwood thought Vash was going to say yes, so great was the agony written across his face. For the space of a breath the priest thought he was honestly going to have to extinguish the light within the man beneath him - and he almost cried. Almost.
"No. Just roll me over. If you're so sure I'll die..." Vash's voice was little more than a sigh as it brushed across the priest's face, "then let me die watching the sun rise."
Later Wolfwood could not imagine how he had found the strength to spring back into action, let alone the forethought to make the preperations he did after performing Vash's request. Almost of his body's own accord he climbed back up the towering wall, barely feeling the bleeding of his knuckles and the sharp ache between his shoulderblades as he moved. At the top he scoured the area, found the wrapping of his cross punisher draped around a stone, discovered Vash's spare clothing, searched fruitlessly for their bike, and then made his way to the corpses nearby.
Before he really knew what he had done, he was slicing chunks of flesh off the nearest sandworm and wrapping them up in a length of cloth, then forcing them into the bottom of Vash's luggage bag. There were two bedrolls tangled together at the base of a nearby boulder, so the priest wrapped stones in them and dropped them off the edge of the cliff. He then discovered the leather straps he usually kept locked around his cross, and strung them together to make a sizable rope, then roamed about and found one precious canteen of water, which he didn't partake of, merely hooked it to the rest of the geat and sighed thoughtfully.
"Don't stop," the priest ordered himeself, clenching his fists. "If you stop you'll lose your energy." It was frighteningly true - Wolfwood was running, so to say, on nothing more than pure adrenaline, and when that gave out his injuries and strained muscles would make movement unbearable. With a heavy sigh he began to descend, the pack painfully heavy on his shoulders and the rope securing his package to his back busy biting into the soft underbelly of his body.
A little more than halfway down his muscles began to lock up all at once, clenching bitterly whenever the black-clad man ordained to move. Gritting his knife in his teeth, Wolfwood leaned forward and let his feet probe below for another hold, his calves stiff and disobediant as he strained. There was a strong step beneath him, one big enough for a moment of relaxation, and Wolfwood took it without hesitating.
When it broke out from beneath him, the priest fell backwards, fingers scrabbling clumsily at the rapidly distancing wall, seeking some sort of purchase and finding none. He fell a good three stories before fate stepped in, and the leather rope dangling from his pack snagged against a boulder and lodged there. Wolfwood was jerked back by the waist and he nearly sobbed in pain, back bending sharply and then springing back up and slamming into the cliff face. He felt dizzy, nausious - and indeed, as he struggled and failed to loosen the rope around his torso, a nagging, heaving sensation in the back of his throat pressed forward. The priest clung to the wall and threw up all remains of edible substances in his body then feebly pawed at the rope around his waist.
It was strangling him, wringing the life out of his body as he swung thirty yarz above the canyon floor. Sparks appeared on the back of the priest's closed eyelids, and when he opened them again, red was tinging his vision - he knew that red too well, it was the color of blood, the color of death.
Vash was somewhere down there below. Somewhere, laying with his eyes open, staring at the faint color of the sky sandwiched between two walls of solid, endless pale stone. And he needed help - that thought was enough to make Wolfwood cling all the more tightly to the wall before him... Because there was a chance of Vash living. Maybe never being the same - but then, he wasn't human. Could a...a whatever-Vash-was survive a fall like that? It seemed so unlikely that Wolfwood almost gave into despair-
No. **You got yourself into this, now get yourself out. He doesn't matter at all, just survive. Make sure he's dead and keep moving, you're sure to be saved. After all, someone always, always steps in right in the nick of time. Right?**
Nick. Vash had called him Nick. The priest smiled slightly as that name echoed in his mind, his cheek pressed against hard, packed dirt.
Moments later the rope gave way and he plummetted again, blacking out upon contact with the ground.
~~~~
All colors bleed to red
Asleep on the ocean's bed
Drifting in empty seas
For all my days remaining
But would north be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Dark angels follow me
Over a godless sea
Mountains of endless falling,
For all my days remaining,
What would be true?
~~~~
"It's a little sad, don't you think?" Vash asked softly, breath ghosting across the shell of Wolfwood's ear, cradeled by warm, quiet breath. It licked along his shoulder and escaped with a soft, lingering hiss.
Wolfwood blinked lazily in response. "What?"
"Aren't you sad that you can't tell the truth?"
That sounded like a question, rather than a softly whispered statement. Wolfwood turned and pressed his forehead to Midvalley's, opening his mouth to reply. The musician shifted slightly and pulled his warmth away, leaving Wolfwood to walk alone, his step limping and his breath hissing quietly between his teeth as pain stung every muscle in his body, ethreal and detached from his consciousness. "There is no truth." Wolfwood whispered as transparant fingertips teased across his cheekbones. Ghosts swirled around him, intangible, almost invisible, but maddeningly ever-present, soft wraiths of white and gold, and the occasional blue-green puff of pastel smoke. They danced and twirled like the ashes of a cigarette on their way spiralling to the floor.
The woman was running from him, through the fields. Wolfwood began to stride, then job, then flee in terror as the waving yellow grasses played at his heels, snagging and tripping him. He went down in a blur of yellow and black, then rolled over against the man next to him, distracted.
Golden hair against his fingertips, soft and yielding, petals of shining sun against his body, the glancing touches more powerful than he had ever imagined, like ice that burned with an intensity that was almost blinding. Kisses that were more than enough to send Wolfwood under, drowning in the sheer power of opalescent aquamarine, all of his aphorisms crumbling beneath the heady gaze.
Vash licked his lips and smiled slightly, the upturning of his lips enough to tempt Wolfwood into another try. The priest lodged his love against a wall that hadn't been there moments before, claiming the lips before him as his own, refusing to share. As he kissed, drank, shared his soul with the man beneath him, a soft, repeating prayer arose in the back of his mind and performed a sweeping crescendo until it could not be ignored.
"Flirting with death, you're flirting with death, you're dancing with denial-"
Legato was whispering soft screams in his ears, his hands running down the lapel of Wolfwood's wrinkled suit, playing with the thin, chea pbuttons. The priest shook his head and bucked back, though his body didn't - couldn't, wouldn't resond to his mental commands - getawaygetawaygetaway! Legato's fingers, one hand harsh and warm, one palm as gentle and cool as ice, coaxing responses that Wolfwood couldn't bear to hear.
"Dancing, dancing-" the fingertips slid lower and lower, longer and longer, until they were thin, whip-like, snaking in tight loops around Wolfwood's ankles. The priest kicked, shouted-
"STOP IT!"
Breath against his neck, a tongue slipping down his shoulderblade and pushing him downwards. "Kissing the devil-"
"LEAVE ME ALONE!"
A mantra, again and again, while Wolfwood clung to his gun, like a talisman against the evil behind him. Somehow he lifted it, somehow he fired, screaming all the while, and Vash fell to the ground before him, hands outstretched as blood blossomed beneath him. "Flirting, flirting-"
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!" Wolfwood bit down hard on his own lip and fell to his knees, hands raised to stem the flow of gold down his chin. Lifting his hands, he captured it and struggled to pull it back to him, close and tight, the liquid turning to pale, washed out straw when it touched his chest.
Knives was purring in his arms, coiled like a snake, like a tiger, prepared to bite with ferocity that could not be rivaled. His lazy promise tickled Wolfwood's ears as they kissed, as Vash kissed him, as Knives and Vash pulled away, beyond his reach, owning one another. "Mine. He's mine. He's mine. He's mine. He's-"
~~~~
The priest's eyes snapped open, and he stared up at the sky, unaware of anything but the lingering dream and a small stone that was jabbing harshly into his shoulder. "Fuck," he whispered softly. "I'm going fucking crazy."
With those thoughtful words, Wolfwood lay there for another ten minutes against the hard ground, trying to summon up the strength of will to actually move his sprawled limbs. When said mental courage had been achieved, every inch of his body was aching in the most unpleasant of manners, screaming in protest as he hauled himself to his feet. The leather band wrapped around his waist lit his body on fire as Wolfwood staggered to a standing position, leaning dangerously to one side as he began walking, dragging himself onwards with gritted teeth.
It was natural to be scared for his 'friend', especially considering how close he wanted to be to Vash. But still, Nicholas D. Wolfwood had a vague idea, with his blurry vision and bleeding body, of exactly how insane he was becoming. The fact that whether he lived or died *did not matter* was frightening, in the same way the fact that one Vash the Stampede's current status was all he was breathing for made him want to curl up and die...
Definately insane. He dropped himself next to the blonde, barely standing for long enough to meet Vash's weak smile and then unhook the belt around his waist. "I got...stuff," the priest hissed, pulling at the bag next to him and opening it. His head was pounding in need of sleep, but he refused to give in, at least not until Vash had been taken care of. After all, he was the one with the broken neck. "Are ya alright?"
The voice wasn't pleading, just overwhelmingly exhausted, but Wolfwood couldn't bear the haunted look in the eyes that were regarding him. "Cold..." Vash whispered, quietly.
The priest fumbled for a blanket and extracted one of the two sleeping rolls he had discovered with trembling hands. Vash hadn't moved at all while he had been gone, the priest noticed, but he was turning his head with more ease now, his expression was less pained. Could he really be healing that quickly, or was he slipping away from life, into a hopefully painless void?
"Where did you go?" Vash asked, though Wolfwood felt certain that the older man already knew where he had been and what he had found.
"To the top. I got...meat. I should start a fire." **Can't rest just yet, gotta make sure we have food. And then...then...**
"Water?"
"A little."
Vash's face looked concerned, though his eyes were still hazed over with a miasma of agony. "The bike?" he asked, lips dry.
"Didn't see it." Wolfwood dragged himself up and limped to the other side of their 'area', the clearing between massive stones that they had landed in. It wouldn't be necessary to move soon, at least... He found enough firestarting material and managed to recover a match from the bag, starting it up with a long suffuring sigh. Moments later the worm meat had been forced to the side of the fire, close enough to cook but not burn, as Wolfwood intended on passing out for several days if at all possible.
Vash's eyes were closed when the priest was ready to say goodnight - growling, Wolfwood stalked over to the blonde, shoved back the sleeping roll, and crawled down next to him, too tired to even notice the cool temperature of Vash's body. Settling on his stomach, the priest spit out a mouthful of dirt and closed his eyes - sleep hit him like a ton of proverbial bricks. With a sigh that was half a hiccup and half a sob, Wolfwood's thundercloud eyes disappeared behind heavy lips, and his darkly bruised, encrusted lips parted slightly as dreams immediately beset him.
As Wolfwood slept, Vash the Stampede watched him with curious aquamarine eyes, the bones in his neck re-knitting with alarming speed even as he contemplated his paradox of a companion. The humanoid Typhoon gave Wolfwood a long, gaurdedly appraising look, then evidently discarded what he had learned, closing his eyes and joining the other man in slumber.
~~~~
Sometimes I see your face,
The stars seem to lose their place
Why must I think of you?
Why must I?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Why would you want me to?
And what would it mean to say,
That, "I loved you in my fashion"?
What would be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
~~~~
