Title: Allergies and Music
Author: tir-synni
A/N: Still not quite sure where this came from, it’s unbeta’d, scribbled out, and I don’t really care. *waves W/V banner* Based purely on the mangaverse, which I’ve discovered I definitely prefer. ^_^
Addy: [email protected]

 

To Wolfwood’s surprise, he had recently discovered that Vash the Stampede, the $$60 Billion Double Dollar Man, the Humanoid Typhoon, Mankind’s First Localized Disaster and self-appointed Hunter of the Dragonfly of Love, actually possessed a nice singing voice. When he wasn’t joking or drunk off his ass, his soft, mellow voice sang as sweetly as any of those annoying birds that woke Wolfwood at too-fuckin’-early o’ clock. In fact, Vash had shared a new song with the dark priest less than an hour ago. Into the West, Wolfwood dubbed it. Before the legendary outlaw had sung it, Wolfwood had never heard of it.

Now that song revolved endlessly through his head, a distinctive contrast to Vash’s harsh retching.

How ironic, Wolfwood mused, hearing Vash weep and cough in the next room. One of the most infamous outlaws in the world–if not the most infamous–allergic to red meat and brandy. No one would ever believe me.

Against his will, Wolfwood began humming the melody of Into the West, even as Vash began throwing up again. Judging by the rough gagging at the end, he believed it almost over. There were a couple spits . . . ooh, the dry heaving. The priest cringed.

Well, he thought optimistically, stretching his legs out on the stiff double bed, at least he gets to vomit in the security of a bathroom. The priest mused on that for a moment, struggling to think past the lyrics of the song. Of course, if we hadn’t stopped at the hotel for the night, we never would have ordered room service, and we never would have discovered that this was one of the few places on Gunsmoke that regularly bought red meat. Wolfwood thought for another moment, shrugged, and resumed humming Into the West. It really was a pretty song.

Beyond the locked bathroom door, weeping replaced the thick choking. The man never flinched over bullets driving through flesh and bone but cried like a baby over some lost stomach lining. What a wuss.

Longingly, Wolfwood eyed his jacket, still draped over the table by the window. The treasures within it called to him. Smoke us, Wolfwood, the perfectly bent nicotine sticks crooned. Smoke us. . . .

And if he even tried smoking anything around Vash while he was sick, the outlaw would show him why people murmured "The Devil is real. . . ." in his wake. Wolfwood’s fingers itched. He licked his lips. Damn if he was going to suffer alone.

"Yo, Tongari," the clergyman called pleasantly. "When your throat stops bleeding, can you sing a new song for me? This one has been in my head for a while." After a moment, he shouted, "Hey, you actually sounded threatening for a change! You should throw up more often!"

Well. That certainly wasn’t nice. Wolfwood snickered before humming a verse again. Why didn’t the whole song ever get stuck in someone’s head? Why always just a single part? It was discrimination against the rest of the song, that’s what it was!

Finally, the sobbing in the bathroom ceased, and Wolfwood paused mid-hum. With an indolent stretch, Wolfwood hauled himself off the bed and meandered towards the bathroom. Obligingly, the door clicked and opened just as he reached it, and just as obligingly, he caught the haggard man leaning against it.

"With friends like you," Vash wheezed into Wolfwood’s collar, "who needs enemies?"

Wolfwood huffed and dragged a limp arm over his shoulders. "How was I supposed to know they made their vegetable soup with beef broth? I thought I was doing you a favor!"

Vash bared surprisingly sharp teeth in a snarl. Wolfwood grimaced. "Let me guess: You didn’t wash your mouth while you were in there."

The blond head fell back onto his neck. Damn. He was going to have to clean that collar later. Why couldn’t he lean his head on Wolfwood’s shoulder? His collar was white; his hair was bl–

Wolfwood stared at those spiky locks. Then he stared yearningly at his jacket again.

"I couldn’t keep my hand steady," Vash croaked as Wolfwood eased him onto the bed where the priest had previously been laying. Vash coughed again. Wolfwood fluffed the flat pillow for him.

"At least you missed your coat," the brunet informed him. Inconspicuously, he checked his collar. Good. Didn’t have to wash it yet.

Bloodshot eyes glared at him before closing. Wolfwood ignored that and placed the back of his hand against Vash’s flushed cheeks and forehead. Good. No fever. Just lots and lots of vomit. For the sake of midnight bathroom trips, Wolfwood hoped all of it hit the toilet.

For a long moment, Wolfwood stared at those tense features. One hand reached out again, just touching the clenched jaw. The slight bristles caught against the callouses on the tips of his fingers. Wolfwood hesitated. Carefully, as if his finger rested on a hair-trigger finger, the terrorist priest glided those fingers upwards.

With a melodramatic sigh, Wolfwood turned on his heel and ambled deliberately into the bathroom. Yep. All in the toilet. No teasing later about aim. Dammit. Kindly, he flushed the commode. Never thinking about what the toilet water looked like as it swirled away, Wolfwood slammed the lid shut and turned his back to the thick, crimson fluid. A quick check under the sink revealed rags and a bucket. Nodding to himself, Wolfwood grabbed the necessary materials. Several moments later, he walked out of the bathroom.

The outlaw never moved from his supine position as the dark priest strolled to his bedside. His only sign of life was a rough, soft purr when Wolfwood wiped his face with a damp rag.

"I’m not brushing your teeth for you," Wolfwood informed him, carefully dipping the cloth under Vash’s high collar. The man could be surprisingly sensitive over whatever he hid under that coat.

" ‘kay," Vash murmured. Those iridescent eyes remained shut.

Damn. Unconsciously humming a couple notes, Wolfwood eyed the complicated scarlet coat. More important than the breath, how was he going to get Vash out of that damned trap? Did he have that many buttons and locks just to keep himself entertained while stripping? Or to just discourage people from doing more than looking?

Oh, fuck it. Wolfwood continued wiping off Vash’s face and neck. He wasn’t going to try getting that damned thing off unless the gunman specifically asked. He wasn’t going to risk a sick, grumpy outlaw pistol-whipping him because he was testy about his body. The man could stand nude in the middle of the street, but he couldn’t strip in front of a comrade. Huh.

" ‘Safe in my arms,’ Wolfwood hummed, watching Vash’s breathing calm. " ‘You’re only slee-ping.’ "

Definitely a nice song. Wolfwood’s humming drifted, smoky eyes on Vash’s surprisingly delicate features. The rag against that long neck dripped with lukewarm sink water and feverish tears. After a moment, Wolfwood rinsed out the rag again and began wiping it against the back of Vash’s neck. The small black hairs at the nape glistened with moisture.

Vash never did tell him where he learned that song; he had sang it after dinner, as the food settled in their stomachs and the twin suns set outside the window. His eyes had been softer than Wolfwood had seen them for a while, lost in some bittersweet memory. For that moment, Vash had forgotten Rai-Dei the Blade and his threat against Vash’s mysterious home, as well as the samurai’s death at Wolfwood’s hands. For that moment, Wolfwood had forgotten holding a gun to Vash’s head just the other day, wondering if he was traveling with some unnatural creature . . . with some monster. For that sweet moment, there had only been music and the sunset.

Then Vash had choked and ran into the bathroom. Less than a minute later, the puking commenced.

Wolfwood desperately wanted to ask the sleeping figure if he could one day sing a song for the priest’s children. He knew they would love Vash’s songs. They would love Vash. And without a doubt, Vash would love them. The blond would probably flourish in the quiet, gentle atmosphere of the church, surrounded by adoring kids. And Wolfwood would be there, smiling.

But tomorrow they would reach Vash’s home, and the game would resume. Tonight was only the calm before the storm, with Knives’ icy blue eyes as deadly as any lightning.

" ‘Safe in my arms,’ Wolfwood repeated, " ‘you’re only slee-ping. What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call. . . ?’ "

And on the rag, Vash’s tears dried.