Chapter Text
The road to Tonim Town is long and unpaved and, frankly, Wolfwood is more than a little sick of this shit.
He’s only been traveling with the localized disaster for a few weeks, but he’s sure he’s already lost years off his lifespan babysitting the idiot. He’s just so fucking reckless—barreling headfirst into gunfire with one of those stupid, fake smiles glued to his lips.
It always goes like this:
1. Arrive in a new town after hours of exhaustive traveling.
2. Vash almost kills himself trying to save some useless, ungrateful bastard.
3. Wolfwood, in turn, has to save his spikey ass, resulting in either one of them chewing the other out for being a heedless moron as the dust settles.
4. Rinse and repeat.
Wolfwood really can’t understand the guy, not for the life of him. And with goggles too tight around his eyes, the desert sun baking him through his suit, and his back hunched over the bars of a motorcycle for the last two hours, he’s not motivated to start.
He tilts his head, observing as Vash, stuffed into his ridiculous little sidecar, nibbles politely on a doughnut—he barely fits in the thing, long legs bent up to his chest in a position that looks anything but comfortable. He watches the way the man’s absurd hair bends backwards in the whipping winds, how his sleepy eyes are soft and content. Comfortable, even, after his little stunt on the Mubra trying to play hero. It’s as if nothing even happened, like he’s more than ready to move on to his next playdate with his suicidal tendencies.
Wolfwood had been interested in studying Vash in that situation, how they could’ve possibly made it out alive with no casualties—but the longer it had dragged on, the more uncomfortable he’d felt.
He’d come to a simple conclusion: there’s something seriously wrong with this guy.
No matter how bleak it seems, how hard Wolfwood tries not to crush the life out of the dickheads that think they can take advantage of Vash’s kindness, he just never learns. It hollows out something inside his chest, a strange pressure that aches into his limbs.
He could say so many things to Vash, a million thoughts bouncing around in Wolfwood’s head as he watches how the suns reflect off the guy’s soft, disgustingly blue eyes; how his stupid little earring jingles around after every minute bump in the sand.
You’re a complete idiot.
You need to stop letting people walk all over you.
Why am I starting to care about you?
I don’t deserve your trust. No one does.
You’re so beautiful, like an angel.
Instead, Wolfwood does what he’s most familiar with: suddenly pulling in the front brake and violently launching Vash out of the sidecar, sending him careening into the stifling desert air.
“You fucking piss me off!”
He feels a sudden shock of regret as he watches the blonde dumbass catch some serious air time, flailing his long legs and clutching the box of doughnuts to his chest like it’s his firstborn—but then Wolfwood gets a glimpse of his stupid laughing face, and any lingering guilt dissipates to make way for pure irritation.
He hits the sand in an ungraceful heap, his red coat spilling out around his body. Despite his spine bent at a sickening 90° angle, the first thing the loser does is check on his doughnuts, sighing in relief after peeking under the lid. Wolfwood scrambles off the motorcycle, looming over the guy while he’s down like the devil he is.
“Why don’t you fuckin’ drive then, huh?!” he barks, kicking sand against his precious doughnuts; wholly unnecessary, he understands in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t care anymore. Vash is a good sport about it, because of course he is, swiping the box clean without a single complaint.
“Oh—that’s not a good idea,” he hums, leaning back into the mound of sand he face-planted into.
“Hm? Why not?” Wolfwood pushes.
He just shrugs, a glimmer of amusement still shining in his eyes. “I don’t know how.”
“Come on, don’t you go bein’ humble again.” He nudges Vash’s leg with his foot, spraying another cloud of sand into his face. “The Humanoid Typhoon can’t drive a shitty little motorcycle?”
Wolfwood plays this game a lot with him—seeing how far he can wring him until he snaps. It hasn’t worked yet, and he knows today is not going to be the end of his streak.
Vash simply spits sand out of his mouth and stands, shaking out his coat. He’s just slightly taller than Wolfwood—not significant enough to be noticeable most of the time, but enough to piss him off. He pulls the goggles off his head, flinging them at the object of his misery.
“C’mon, just for a bit. I’m fuckin’ tired,” he mutters, “I’ll even hold your damn doughnuts.”
Vash sticks his bottom lip out into a pout, makes a show of thinking it over, and then hands the box over to Wolfwood. He struggles to fit the goggles over his stupid hair and wordlessly moves to mount the bike, waiting until Wolfwood awkwardly folds himself up to fit into their minuscule sidecar.
As he watches Vash stare down at the motorcycle’s controls, a sinking feeling of regret begins to worm its way into his gut—that maybe he isn’t bluffing, that he’s about to see Heaven at the hands of the biggest dumbass in No Man’s Land.
He clears his throat, pointing at the handlebar. “You—you need to shift gears first,” he says, forcing a smile. “Right?”
Vash nods, gently pulling down the clutch. Wolfwood lets go of a tense breath, hoping that was enough to jog Blondie’s memory—but then he’s fitting his hand around the throttle with conviction, and Wolfwood doesn’t even have time to scream before the motorcycle’s rear tire catches on the sand, tipping the entire bike straight up into the air. He feels his stomach lurch, his hands scrambling for purchase after tossing the box of doughnuts to God knows where—and then the motorcycle is falling backwards onto the dunes, giving Wolfwood a split second to scramble out of the sidecar before he’s smashed into some kind of idiot pancake.
Except Wolfwood, for all his strength and wit, is a slow, fumbling wreck of a man when stuffed into a seat meant for toddlers. He scrabbles helplessly at the bike, catches a glint of Vash’s stupid panicked face, and then he’s slamming head-first into the dunes.
He truly can’t curse the guy out fast enough, spitting such colorful words as “fucking”, “dipshit”, and even “dumbfuck” around a mouthful of hot sand.
He digs himself out of the Wolfwood-shaped hole imprinted into the desert, two fistfuls of sand ready for launch when he meets the gaze of a laughing Vash—smiling, really smiling, up to his cheeks and scrunching his eyes; Wolfwood slowly drops his cannon fodder back down into the dunes, a foreign airiness seeping into his chest.
His next insult sticks in his throat as he watches the so-called “Humanoid Typhoon”, buried up to his waist, rubbing at his eyes as he straight up giggles.
The sight anchors an uncomfortable weight onto him—something like guilt, something like fear, something like vulnerability; burrowing underneath his skin and making itself a home inside his rib cage.
“You’re a fuckin’ moron,” Wolfwood huffs, voice soft, ducking his head down to hide his own smile. “Now the bike’s all scratched t’hell. You’re payin’ for that, you know.”
Vash stumbles over to the motorcycle, lifting it like it’s nothing and settling it back into the sand.
“Nah, no one’ll notice,” he says with a grin, and with so much confidence even Wolfwood might’ve believed him if he couldn’t see for himself just how scuffed the paint is. “More importantly, where—oh, Wolfwood, how could you…”
The named man follows his line of sight, to the colorful doughnuts scattered across the dunes and covered in sand. That light airiness dissipates in an instant, and Wolfwood snatches his goggles off of the Humanoid Broom’s head before giving his bike a quick surface clean with his coat.
“I’m so fucking sorry I couldn’t save your precious doughnuts while we were busy crashing,” he snaps, crossing his arms when Vash simply pouts at him.
He knows it’s just for show, that Vash knows he’s already got the world’s worst priest’s leash curled tight around his fingers—but Wolfwood breaks immediately, can’t handle disappointment, however joking, in those eternally sad, baby blue eyes of his; searching for the doughnut box if only to get rid of that horrible, crawling sensation of something in his gut.
He finds it easily, peeking inside and feeling something like relief when he’s met with the sole survivor.
“Good news, Spikey,” he says, handing him the box. “There’s one left. Now get your fuckin’ stupid ass back in the sidecar and let’s get the hell out of here before I skin you.”
And Vash looks so happy when he pulls out the pastry—a crumbling mess, glazed a deep red, probably has sand in it but what doesn’t on this godawful planet.
“Thank you,” he says, painfully genuine, and Wolfwood shoves past him to mount the motorcycle.
“Whatever,” is all he mumbles in response, waiting for his idiot to stumble back into the sidecar with all the grace of a drunken sheriff.
Wolfwood puts on his best show, a perfect display on how to correctly accelerate a motorcycle. But when he next glances over to Vash, he knows he wasn’t paying attention at all—gleefully stuffing his face with the doughnut instead.
This may be the hardest job he’s ever taken in his life.