cutenonny (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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bakerstreet2023-04-25 09:21 am
cutenonny) wrote in bakerstreet2023-04-25 09:21 am
Better brush up
Personal hygiene is just that - personal. By the time we've come to a point in our lives where we notice that the concept exists and we should be prudent about it, we can take care of ourselves. There are also many practical reasons why we don't involve other people in this process. We're not too keen on showing off parts to be cleaned that are private in most contexts, and there's definitely an ingrained aversion to showing so much soft, fleshy skin. Hot water or a sharp razor could spell dangerous with a capital D should they come into the hands of someone with a vendetta against you. No need to be extra vulnerable.
So, if you're involving another person in your cleansing routines, it must be someone you trust. Not only that, but it's most likely someone you're comfortable with and likely at least somewhat open to being intimate with. You may not be dropping all your clothing in front of them, but it's still you opening yourself up to touching and closeness unparalleled in more "usual" moments.
Established and burgeoning couples (or not-so-couples) can bond through this showing of care and good faith. Will you like being pampered and find the attention endearing? Or will things go terribly, terribly wrong?
...you never should have let them near that shaving cream.
- Comment with your character and preferences.
- Smut is not required. Mention if you want/don't want it.
- Reply to others and use the RNG.
- Comfort: You've decided to pitch in a helping hand to get your partner to unwind, and warm water or suds may do the trick.
- Romantic: The sole purpose of this endeavor is to set a lovey-dovey mood. No shame here!
- It Started Out Platonic...: What a good pal you are, volunteering to give your friend a good scrub. Of course, you didn't count on the cute way she squirms as you scrub her back or how he blushes when you shampoo his scalp.
- No Choice: Currently, you're unable to clean yourself up. That means that you need assistance, and it might as well be the person you lov- tolerate the most.
- Open: You have trust issues. Actually, you have backlogs of trust issues. Still, you want to show the person you love that you're willing and trying to change for them, and what better way than letting down your walls and having the assist in your grooming?
- Shave: Whether it's your face, your legs, or...your other places you've decided to shave, there's a certain intimacy involved in letting your lover do it for you. Let's hope they won't leave you looking like you got into a battle with a book with the paper cuts to prove it.
- Reluctant: They want to get you clean. You don't want to show off your body at all. It's injured, it looks weird, what if they don't like it...
- Forced: You love them, you really do, but you won't kiss them if they continue to look like an unwashed hobo clown. You have to draw the line somewhere, and if they won't take action, you will.
- Beat Up: You've been trampled in a fight. Your partner isn't about to let you wallow around in your own mud and blood.
- Hair: Some find that there's nothing quite as soothing as getting their hair washed or brushed. Of course, those with more luxurious locks may find any hair care a burden, so the assistance is appreciated.
- Make Up: They think you're beautiful already. See how they'll paint you up when they get the chance.
- Unique: If you're not human, you probably have your own proceeders you have to do to keep all spiffied up. There are wings with stray feathers to pluck, horns on heads to polish, scales to shave down, all sorts of tasks! Introduce your ignorant (and most likely human) boyfriend or girlfriend to your world...and your pain.
- Accommodations: Those with disabilities or prosthetics may also have their own routines, and anyone who wants to be with them should learn how to pitch in.
- Sponge Bath: You don't have enough water to do this right or you just want to give them a nice rub and scrub with a gentle sponge or wash cloth.
- Wound Care: In order for wounds to heal, proper care must be taken. Bandages have to be changed and cuts cleaned out. It's certainly easier when you don't have to do it all by yourself.
- Together: You're both cleaning up, taking a bath, splish splash, in the same tub because there's no where else to go. This is the most likely smut option, even if, again, it starts off "platonic."
- Clothing: Don't forget that clean clothes are an important part of personal hygiene. Always make sure your partner has a nice, fresh outfit, even if it's to your taste and not theirs.
- I've Made a Terrible Mistake: Somehow, everything's now shit. This little experiment went haywire and you may be sporting anything from the worst hairdo of your life to a Columbian necktie.
- FREE SPACE
let me know if you'd like anything changed!
How fucking stupid he’d been
Never had he ever met somebody so goddamned eager to throw himself into the line of fire as this stupid sonuvabitch. It didn’t seem to matter who was fighting, or whether it was any of his goddamn business, no, the second the guns come out here comes this kid with skinny ankles and some handmedown too-big coat, throwing himself in front of bullets and knives and rocks and fucking arrows, like he thinks he’s invincible.
And that’s not the worst part. Wolfwood spits out the lollipop stick and reaches for a cigarette, his anger too much for sugar to put a dent in. The worst part is when the dumbass pretends later not to be hurt, when he limps his way into his room for the night or disappears behind some building for a couple minutes and comes back out pale and sweaty, like everyone can’t tell what he’s been doing in there. Like everyone doesn’t know how badly he was just hurt.
Only they don’t seem to notice, do they? The old man does, Wolfwood’s sure of that -- that fucker doesn’t miss much -- but Uncle Drunkard doesn’t owe the Stampede the time of day, much less a kind word and a gentle hand. He’s too busy blotting out the world behind that flask of his. And his newbie? She can’t stop gazing into Stampede’s big blue eyes long enough to notice the big red wet spot forming on his side.
Which means, once again, Nicolas Wolfwood gets the shit detail.
They get rooms for the night on the old man’s business account, four singles plus a handful of shower tokens each. But when Vash heads for his room Wolfwood is right behind him, all but shoving him into the room and locking the door behind him once they’re inside. Babysitting, Wolfwood thinks, really would be so much easier if the baby would stop getting shot. ]
Strip.
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That's what it feels like, anyway. Vash can't be sure, because it's not like he can check, but he's been shot enough times to get this idea in his head that every caliber of bullet feels different when it's lodged inside the body. Maybe he's insane. He's probably a little insane. But in the moment, gritting his teeth through the pain spiking up through his gut and hammering into his skull, it seems to make about as much sense as anything else.
Wolfwood chasing him up the stairs like he can smell the blood in the air makes less sense, but Vash doesn't have it in him to argue. He only wishes he couldn't feel the tension radiating off him at his back, because it feels like the tension in a bar when a fight is brewing and Vash is—well, he'd rather not. He's fine, or he'll be fine. He just wants to dig this bullet out and curl up in his shitty hotel bed in peace, let his body do the thing where this'll all be an unpleasant memory in the morning.
Maybe he's not as fine as he thought, though. Wolfwood shoves him and Vash stumbles a scant two steps into the room before his knees buckle and he sits down hard on the floor, clutching at the wet spot down low in his abdomen where the bullet went in.
And Vash is usually a well of patience, he likes to think, but even he has limits, and right now his nerves are frayed thin enough from the pain that he can't stop himself from biting back. ]
What's your problem?
[ Like the problem isn't streaked in blood and painfully obvious, sitting here on the floor with his head hanging and sweat beading up on his brow. ]
I didn't ask you to help, [ he mutters. As arguing goes, it's a tired and lukewarm attempt. ] Think I know how to handle a bullet wound on my own by now.
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See, that's the problem right there. You think.
[ There's a couple hidden compartments on the Punisher, with all manner of prizes -- snacks, emergency vials, even a suicide pill that he'd been assured would work, eventually. The little fold out just above the grip, though? That's for bandages, gauze, disinfectant. The vials are only intended for life-saving measures, he'd been told, the lesson reinforced, as most things with the Eye were, by actions. Any injury that wasn't life-threatening or that didn't slow the actions of the agent, were to be endured, as a reminder of the fallibility of humanity.
Wolfwood thought that was the purest distilled bullshit, but he still kept his stash of painkillers and burn cream fresh. Just because his current job gave him plenty of access to instant healing didn't mean that generosity would last forever, and he wasn't the kind of guy who enjoyed pain for its own sake. ]
You think you know how to handle a bullet wound. [ The compartment popped open at just the press of a lever, without even needing to remove the showy wrappings around the body of the weapon. ] You think you know how to handle somebody stepping in front of you in the middle of a gunfight. [ The whole kit was packed in a neat little zip bag, that Wolfwood pulled free and tossed onto the bed. ] I think that after today we can agree that your decision making skills suck.
[ Last out of the compartment was a bottle of rubbing alcohol, for washing his hands when water wasn't available. That, he slipped into his pocket, before rolling up his sleeves. ]
So stop thinking. [ The grin he turned on Stampede was neither friendly nor safe. ] And take off your shirt, unless you want me to do it.
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He shuts his mouth and trades Wolfwood a sour look instead, the kind that says I think you're wrong but I'm going to pout about it for the rest of the evening instead of fighting.
He doesn't bother trying to get up off the floor—just shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to the side, then sets his attention to his shirt. The blood only shows up as a dark stain against the black, but it's all over his hip and down his pant leg, fabric plastered to his skin. Taking the thing off is more like peeling a sunburn, and he hisses as it pulls away from the wound, exposing it to the sting of cool air.
Clean wound, perfect circle, but it hurts enough to make him fold in on himself if he prods. The bullet is almost right there, if he feels at it, bigger than the entry wound it made, which tells him his theories are sound. ]
I don't know what you think you're going to do about it that I can't, [ Vash mutters, sullen, glancing up at him with his sleeves pulled back like he's about to perform surgery. ] Didn't think they taught you how to treat the living at Undertaker School.
[ They both stopped buying that story a long while ago, but Vash is just annoyed enough to bring it up again now. ]
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Quick as a shot he dismisses that idea, grabbing the first aid kit off the bed where he'd flung it before Stampede even gets his shirt over his head. He might be a whiny brat, but he's nothing like the kids at the orphanage. Those kids have a future, if Wolfwood can keep his shit together. Stampede here doesn't. ]
Oh, I've got skills you wouldn't believe, Spikey.
[ The amount of damage Stampede's bare chest reveals is shocking, to say the least, but Wolfwood bites back any lingering pity and drops to his knees, pulling out the bottle of disinfectant and pouring out a good palmful. The entrance wound is clean, at least, with no sign that it pulled any of his shirt in with it, but he'll only know for sure once he's able to get the bullet out. Puncture wounds have a tendancy to turn nasty... which, he realizes a moment later, could be why Stampede here is so covered in scars. Pulling bullets out with his fingers – because that's the way the dumbass does it, isn't it? Not like he's got tweezers and a line of suture in the pocket of that stupid coat – is sure to leave fragments, contamination, all that shit that makes a wound heal slow, get infected, scar up into a big nasty blob.
With a hand on his chest, he pushes Stampede down to lie flat, pointedly ignoring the bumps and wires and everything else holding his chest together. If he ever needed a reminder of how different Stampede and his brother are to normal humans, here it is, right in front of him. A dead man, covered in decades of old injuries that should have left him in the dirt, but who somehow gets up every time.
Not for the first time, Wolfwood wonders just what, exactly, is in those vials that the Eye feeds him. ]
You gonna be able to hold still?
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If Wolfwood knows anything about his brother, then he should already know Vash could've walked away from this bullet without his help. He wouldn't be in here arguing with him about it if his job was the only motive. ]
Yeah— [ he starts to say, the whole world going vertical as he falls onto his back. He blinks up at the ceiling, frowning. ] Wait.
[ Vash takes Wolfwood by the wrist, prying his hand off him so he can prop himself up on one elbow. He reaches for the corner of the pillow closest to the edge of the bed and tugs it off into the floor.
Not for a headrest, no. Nothing so cozy. He pulls it over and presses it to his face, because if this gets loud and the neighbors hear—or, god forbid, Meryl down the hall—he's pretty sure they're going to get several kinds of wrong ideas. ]
Yeah, [ he says again, muffled by the pillow this time, shoulders rising and falling with a short huff. ] Let's just get this over with, okay? I can handle it.
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The fact that it didn't go right through his body says to Wolfwood that the bullet shifted inside – maybe it hit bone, maybe it's soft lead shot and it expanded, maybe Stampede's guts are full of shrapnel and he's minutes away from bleeding out internally. None of these options are great, and none of them are things that Stampede could have taken care of on his own. If he weren't here, lending a helping hand, would they all wake up in the morning to find a corpse next door? Would he call for help if he started bleeding out, or would he just let it happen?
Stupid bastard. It's all Wolfwood can do not to sock him one good for being such an idiot. He doesn't actually know how much damage someone like Vash can take and still walk away, and he's got no plans to find out anytime soon. It's no wonder Stampede's been assigned a babysitter, if this is the shit he likes to pull. Wolfwood can't help but wonder, staring down at him, pillow so casually clutched to his face, if Stampede likes pain. If he enjoys having a chunk of lead rubbing around in his guts. Why else would he go to such lengths to avoid anything that might make things even a tiny bit better?
Fuck it. No time for navel gazing, no matter whose navel it is. Wolfwood pulls open the first aid kit and fishes out the gear he'll need: gauze and antiseptic spray for after the bullet is free, and his favorite pair of long nosed forceps for pulling the little bastard out. ]
Sorry in advance. The undertaker's guild didn't pack me any pain killers this time.
[ His touch on Vash's stomach is surprisingly gentle, thumb and forefinger just barely touching the skin on either side of the entry wound. He pauses for any reaction, then presses just the slightest bit harder, checking to see how widespread the damage is. Is it just tender around the entry point, or does it hurt in a wider area around it? The bigger the area of pain, the worse that internal damage must be, and the riskier the surgery. ]
I'll get you drunk after, if you're still conscious.
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It's hard to stay mad at him when he's being so careful, a totally different Wolfwood from the one who walked through the door in fits and furies a moment ago. Vash doesn't need to see to feel the way his fingers hover over the inflamed area around the wound, so light he barely feels it as more than a twinge. Not for the first time, he wonders if Wolfwood has done this before—if this isn't his first time laying some idiot with more scars than sense down on the floor and playing doctor. He's not bad at it...
...is what he thinks, half a breath before Wolfwood presses down harder. Vash's knee jerks up and he coils around the wound like a loaded spring, making a noise like a hit dog into the pillow and curling his fingers so tightly into the fabric it starts to strain in his grip. ]
'S... bigger, on the inside, [ he says, shaky, voice gone high and creaky like a rusted hinge. He pokes his face out from beneath the pillow, face gone white as fresh linen. ] Like...
[ For lack of words, he cups his hands into a circle, and then expands the circle outward with a harsh puff of breath. ]
Yeah?
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Hollow point?
[ He doesn't need to wait for the answer. Hollow point matches what he saw out in the street, and what he's seeing now with how tender Stampede's whole side is. A fucking hollow point, a slug of lead that ballooned out once it broke through the skin is is now sitting somewhere in his gut, spread out twice as large as it had been when it was first fired.
At least it's probably still in once piece, he thinks wryly, setting the forceps back down. He won't have to go fishing for thirty pieces of shrapnel, but it's going to hurt like twelve kinds of hell to pull out.
His scalpel is sharp, double sided, and glints wickedly as he pulls it out of the first aid kit. ]
If you weren't dying right now I swear to god I'd beat the stupid out of you, Blondie. [ If he just pulls that slug out of Stampede's side, he's going to tear the entire way, and torn flesh doesn't knit back together half as well as cleanly cut flesh does. Cutting the wound larger will hurt more, but the pain doesn't matter. All that matters is that it'll heal faster, with less chance of infection. All that matters is that he'll be alive tomorrow, god willing and the worms don't come, and able to keep moving. ] You're lucky it didn't blow a hole in your spine, you dumb fucker!
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What was I supposed to do about it, politely ask him to switch to a standard round before he shot me?
[ The choice of bullet does raise questions, though, like: what if it was more a vendetta than a case of bad luck? But those are the kinds of questions Vash doesn't care to think about right now. ]
Besides, I'm not d— [ He catches the glint of the scalpel in the corner of his vision, and his eyes go huge. ] woah, woah, woah.
[ Vash scoots, dragging a trail of blood with him across the floorboards, and only stops when he hits his head on the nightstand, knocking his glasses askew. Maybe he's a little delirious from the blood loss, but that's—this is—does he really have to— ]
What do you need a knife like that for?
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What do you mean, what do I need the knife for? [ Has the blood loss and shock gone to his head? Wolfwood holds his hands out, one still holding the scalpel, in imitation of the demo Stampede just gave. ] How do you expect to get a slug this big... [ And he moves his hands in closer, the reverse of what Stampede had done. ] ...out a hole this big, huh?
[ If he's got some kind of plant magic that just pops bullets out, then Wolfwood is gonna be first in line to learn that trick. Until then, there's the plain, painful truth of the knife and the tweezers. ]
If you've got a better way, let's hear it.
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...No, [ Vash says, weary, slumping back down the nightstand until his head hits the floor with a miserable thunk. ] I sure don't.
[ He tugs his glasses off, folds them neatly, and tosses them up onto the bed before he presses the pillow over his face again. The last thing he needs is to crack his lenses on top of everything else. His chest rises and falls—deep breath in, deep breath out—and then: ]
I'm ready this time. Promise. Just make it quick, please?
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Three steps, and we're done.
[ It's a promise, as he grabs the kit and scoots himself back over to where Stampede is currently wedged up against the nightstand. A few quick movements, and everything's laid out how he needs it. Nice and quick.
He lays one hand on Stampede's stomach again, fingers once again to either side of the entry wound. It's tempting to say something, give him a pat or some assurance, but he's already made all the promises he's capable of for one evening. Without another word, without any indication what's coming he pulls his fingertips apart, making the skin around the bullet hole taut, and dips the scalpel blade straight into the hole. The tip hits the bullet, and Wolfwood flicks the blade to the side, running one sharp edge up the inside of Stampede's wound, slicing the side of the bullet hole open. ]
One.
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Knowing that does nothing to soften what happens next—not the sharp tug of the knife as Wolfwood makes his cut, like somebody tied a string to his insides and yanked viciously on it, nor the stinging line of fire that chases it as blood wells up from the cut, hot and angry. Nobody ever talks about the thudding beat of a wound in time with a heart that's trying to pump every last drop of blood from the body. Nobody ever talks about how loud it is to bleed.
Vash slams an ankle into the floor, biting off a groan into the pillow. Two more steps. He just hopes Wolfwood makes it quick. ]
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The wound is full of blood, but he doesn't want to take the time to wash it away. If there were pain killers... if there was even ice, shit, if he'd been able to get Stampede drunk first, if there was anything making this easier, then he'd worry about controlling all that blood flow, keeping things clean and neat. But this is battlefield medicine -- by definition it's a messy, frantic business.
The forceps slip easily -- although probably not painlessly -- into the enlarged wound, and again Wolfwood is searching for that tink of metal against metal when the tip finds the bullet. Keeping that other hand firm against Stampede's stomach he opens the tines of the forceps, stretching the tips wide apart until he can feel them slide over the edges of the slug. He locks the tines into place and lets go of the finger loops -- he wants a firmer grip on the tool for this part.
He's done this a couple of times before, on regular bullets, and it sucks every time. ]
Two.
[ The word sounds like an apology as he wraps his fist around the forceps and slowly begins to pull the slug up and out. This part goes as slow as it goes -- if the forceps slip, if the slug gets hung up on anything inside, then he'll have to start over. He can't just rip it free. ]
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He's not going to be able to sit still for more than a few seconds of this. His heels scrape the floor, fingers digging into the pillowcase until the stitches start to rip at the seams. It's bad enough that for a second, Vash seriously contemplates snatching the forceps from Wolfwood's hands just to make it stop.
Then a strange thing happens: the noise stops, and his body goes slack as Vash simply... untethers from himself, stumbling up against a thing he's only touched a handful of times in his life. A whisper in the room, a draft that shouldn't be there, a momentary opening of something too vast and dangerous for Vash to even consider on a good day.
He's been able to hear his sisters cry from across vast distances since he was small, but on vanishingly rare occasions, when Vash strays too near to the power that rests inside him, they can hear him too. Rarely do they communicate in anything approaching human speech—they query in feelings and vague impressions, myriad consciousnesses tangled together at the source of their own existence, tentatively reaching out.
He could unmake the pain, if he wanted to. Vanish it away and feel nothing. Why does he choose to suffer, they wonder, when he doesn't have to?
There's no good way to explain to them that if he does what comes naturally to him, and opens that door, then he might not be able to put it back a second time. Someone would get hurt. Maybe it would be Wolfwood, here in the hotel room with him, or maybe it would be the entire town. He doesn't know, and he doesn't want to.
The draft in the room dies as quickly as it came.
They don't understand. Vash doesn't expect them to. He pushes them away, smothering the Gate in him and pushing it back down deep where it can't do any harm, knowing in a second he'll snap back to himself and the pain will start all over again.
It's fine. One more step, and this is done.]
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But a real mercy would have been allowing Stampede to avoid getting shot in the first place, wouldn't it?
He doesn't waste a second of the reprieve they've both been given, pulling steadily until the deformed flower of lead bursts free of Stampede's side in a gout of blood. He doesn't have time to wash it off properly to examine it, instead just wiping it on his trouser leg before holding the slug up to the light, checking it quickly for any obviously missing pieces. As far as he can tell – mercy number two – the slug is intact, although they won't really know until the wound festers.
But that's tomorrow's problem. Today, he still needs to stop the bleeding and close this hole up. The forceps and lead slug join the scalpel on the bloodstained floor, and Wolfwood grabs up the bottle of antibiotic, pouring half of it into the wound to try and flush out any remaining contamination.
It's at this point that he hesitates. For an ordinary human, somebody who would take weeks to recover from an injury like this, he'd pack the wound full of gauze to stop the bleeding internally. But Stampede heals much faster than a human. Would filling the wound with gauze actually interfere with his healing? If he just stitches it shut, will the pocket of blood get infected? Or will he heal fast enough that it'll be okay?
He doesn't know. Plant anatomy wasn't part of his lessons, and certainly not plant surgery. A costly second ticks by, and then a second one.
Fuck it. If it all goes bad tomorrow he'll deal with it tomorrow. For now, he grabs up the suture gun –- it's a glorified stapler, but it's faster than needle and thread –- pinches the wound shut, and shoots three staples into Stampede's side to hold it closed.
All that's left is to wrap him in gauze and clean up this mess. ]
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The pain hits a second later, and he hisses quietly. It's not the impossible agony from a moment ago—just an intense, throbbing ache spread out all along his side. Bearable, but it's probably the worst aftermath he's felt in a long time.
He drags the pillow from his face, an iridescent sheen gradually fading from his pupils as he blinks against the light. His face is wet, but he doesn't care to imagine why.
When he glances to the side, Wolfwood is still there, and for some reason his presence alone compels Vash to smile, tired but relieved. ]
Wolfwood...
[ His voice comes out rough, and he blinks in surprise. Must have screamed more than he thought. He props himself up on his elbows, grunting at the way muscle shifts awkwardly around the source of his pain. ]
I think I missed step three, [ he says, surveying Wolfwood's hasty patch job curiously. It'll scar, but it makes no difference at this point; his body is already a patchwork of old brushes with death, so what's one more? ]
Not the worst set of sutures I've ever had. Did you get it all?
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Lay the fuck down, [ --Wolfwood hisses, pushing at his chest again. Seriously, curling up with that kind of damage to his gut? ] You're gonna pop out all my hard work! And yes. [ The slug is on the floor, and he can examine it later if he needs to verify that Wolfwood knows what he's doing. ] I got it all. You're welcome.
[ Now. Is he going to lie still long enough to get wiped down and bandaged, or is he going to get cussed, out, wiped down, and bandaged? ]
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Thanks, Wolfwood. I mean it.
[ He folds his hands atop his chest, gaze drifting upward, trying to tune out the pulsing ache by counting the ceiling boards. ]
If you hadn't been here... I don't know what I would've done. [ A long pause. It's an admission to himself just as much as to Wolfwood. ] Probably something stupid.
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You really piss me off, you know that?
[ There's still blood welling up around the staples, and he's got the fierce urge to poke the idiot right in the gut, right where he's the most tender, to make it bleed more and prove his point. Instead, he throws the soiled gauze on the floor with the rest of the mess and goes digging for a bandage. ]
Trying to get that out on your own would've been worse than stupid. Not dodging in the first place was stupid. Getting involved in that whole fight was stupid!
[ Where the fuck are all the big bandages in this stupid kit?! ]
Not giving half a fuck if you live or die is the stupidest kind of stupid! What's the matter with you?
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I know. I know. [ He passes his arm over his face, exasperated. Or maybe it's just because the ceiling keeps spinning if he looks at it for too long. ] I know.
[ What's the matter with him, though? That's a new one. Maybe it's the blood loss, but the question strikes him as so absurd he bursts out laughing, on a high and just slightly deranged note. Where to even begin? ]
You want me to—hah—start listing things? [ He peeks out from under his arm, stifling another laugh. ] We'll be here all night.
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I want you to stay alive, you stupid sonuvabitch.
[ Once they get to July, all bets are off, he knows that. He's tried really hard not to know anything, but he's cursed with a brain and a pair of eyes, and there's nothing good waiting for Stampede at the end of this road. But by that point, his contract will be complete, and what happens to Stampede won't be any of his business.
But until then, the only thing that matters is getting to the city on time. Wolfwood rips a length of tape off with a brutal gesture, and tapes the bandage down securely. Almost immediately, a dot of red wells up in the center of the gauze, and Wolfwood glares at it as though personally offended.
A lot of other people will die if Stampede bleeds out in a nowhere motel room, or gets crushed under a falling ion cannon, or strangled by one of Conrad's toys, or any of the dozen other ways Wolfwood has watched the man personally try to kill himself over the past few weeks. He has to make it to July, no matter what it takes, and Wolfwood will make that happen. ]
Everybody's messed up and dealing with bad shit. You're not fucking special.
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Ow! Ow, ow, ow-ow—
[ Vash's whining gradually subsides, and he drifts into a contemplative quiet, watching Wolfwood gripe and scowl and continue doing his best to keep him from an untimely death. His words don't sting nearly as much, but then, Vash can't find it in him to argue with the truth. ]
I know, [ he says quietly. A lot of that bad shit traces its origins back to Vash and a handful of bad choices made before anyone dealing with the consequences was born. He's aware. He thinks of it just about every other moment he's awake. ]
Everybody... including you, yeah? I know.
[ Vash has been told he wears his heart on his sleeve, but he put it there himself, and he's never pretended otherwise. He wonders if Wolfwood knows his is displayed just as openly in moments like these. ]
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Stampede, meanwhile, isn't so badly hurt that he can't keep running his mouth. Wolfwood blows a lungful of smoke up toward the ceiling -- the idiot would only cough and pop his stitches if he blew it in his face -- and prays for patience. ]
You don't know a goddamn thing about me.
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