Archive of Our Own

Nicholas D. Wolfwood is a man of infallible faith, according to his own words.

He is a man of the cloth, a man of virtue, a man whose darkened gaze and roguish looks have entrapped a congregation sizable for a backwater town just south of New Miami, a beacon of light in the one place on Gunsmoke where the sun never rises. The glitz and the neon of the city refuse to spill over to the place Wolfwood calls home, which works all the well, because it seems to need no help in attracting other strange things into town. 

The gunslinger does not stroll into town as much as he is found on the floor of  the local bar one dry summer night. A  bartender notices someone trip over a lump on the floor and hops over the counter, peeling said lump and coming face to face with a cheerful man he’s never seen before. This town does not attract new people, and the bartender already feels some distrust. He looks over to his assistant, who must have been the one plying this stranger with drinks. His assistant shrugs, and simply moves over to the next person. 

“What’s your business here?” The bartender asks, because no one new comes to this shithole of a town just casually, not even as a rest stop before New Miami.

“Here — hic — t’solve a problem sir,” the man replies, holding up both his hands in a show of pacification. The bartender frowns and stands up, drawing up the entirety of the other man with him. He’s whip-cord lean and he’s long and he’s young, with strange blond hair, earnest looking bright eyes, and a beauty mark right above his cheekbone.

The bartender lets him go momentarily; a mistake on his part. The man stumbles back, trying to regain his balance, and accidentally crashes against another drunk patron, one Nash Cassidy who’s rather quick with his temper and would have been banned already if he wasn’t a longtime patron of  the only bar in town. 

“Watch where the fuck you’re going!” Cassidy yells and the bartender helplessly watches the events unfold in slow motion. 

The man raises a hand in apology but he does it too fast, and accidentally — or purposefully? — whacks Cassidy’s already considerable squashed face. Cassidy tries to retaliate with his own drunken swing and somehow hits Trevor Farsight instead. 

Bedlam ensues, all in the while the gunslinger slinks out of the bar, unseen by all but one keen-eyed priest. The bartender gives up hope partway through the fight, and instead tells Dominique just exactly who exacted the worst brawl the town has seen in years.

Word gets around town about the gunslinger. He doesn’t try to hide that he’s a gunslinger either; he won’t tell the town what he’s here for but apparently, his initial smile is disarming enough that people forget what they were asking. The bar has banned him for the foreseeable future so he seems to keep to the tiny room on the second floor of the town motel. 

Wolfwood had overheard him in the bar— here to solve a problem, won’t say what the problem is. It’s not a surprise to him. This town has had many problems, but most are dispatched by Wolfwood’s hand. Every now and then, some hothead shows up hoping to cash in on a bounty by hunting down whatever creature or criminal has taken refuge here, only to find out that Wolfwood’s already lined the town coffers and his own with the reward. 

Nothing in this town escapes Wolfwood’s watchful eye. There is nothing in this town that shouldn’t be here; the gunslinger must be going off some old intel. Wolfwood wants to know what the man’s deal is, but he does not seek him out. They all end up at his church anyways.

Wolfwood’s church is the crux of the community, his congregation fervent, their eager prayers always loud and melodic, rising into the atmosphere every three days. Wolfwood preaches with no airs, no flair, yet people like to cling on to him, to the idea that even their speck of nothing on the map has some greater cosmic value.

Any newcomer stops by the church; it’s the easiest way to meet people and gain intelligence, especially if Dominique’s banned them entry into her bar. Wolfwood watches the crowd like a hawk from behind his lectern, keeping a keen eye out for the new man. The sunlight is brighter than usual, filtering in through the stained glass, leaving no corner untouched.

Yet, even as the congregation lines up after his sermon, he sees neither hide nor hair of the new man. In fact, no one sees him for three whole days. The only indication that he’s there is the light that’s on in his motel room, and the hint of a shifting shadow.

It certainly is one way to build intrigue. Wolfwood’s interest is marked, but he’s not desperate to find out. One way or another, everyone eventually falls into his path.

And for this gunslinger, it is at the local gun shop that their paths intersect. 

Wolfwood stops by with the bourbon he promised the owner and sees the new man in town hunched over the counter, watching as William Shatterhand inspects a battered Long Colt. There’s a deep grimace etched into the wrinkled face of the owner, while the other man gives him a hopeful look.

“Bill,” Wolfwood greets as he approaches the main counter. The other man makes space for him as the owner responds with a grunted “Father,” and Wolfwood gets a closer look at the town’s newest guest.

He looks cheerful. That’s enough to make Wolfwood immediately go on guard. The man’s expression is too open, too bright to be found in a town like this. His hair looks like he stuck a fork in an outlet, and he pushes up tinted, circular sunglasses. He’s dressed in an eccentric red  trench coat, and grins widely when he sees Wolfwood.

Wolfwood doesn’t need to even ask for an introduction. The other man’s eyes have lit up and he sticks out a gloved hand.

“You must be the local priest,” the man says, and Wolfwood raises an eyebrow. “Vash the Stampede, at your service.”

“What service would that be?” Wolfwood says, voice dry but not unkind as he takes the proffered hand. “Nicholas Wolfwood.”

The man pauses, and looks around the shop before leaning in. Wolfwood mirrors the action, and Vash whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve heard there’s a creature of the night wreaking havoc here.”

Wolfwood snorts almost immediately, doing little to hide his amusement. Vash doesn’t seem offended; he simply turns back to Shatterhand and asks, “So what’s the damage, then?”

“It’s doable,” the owner says. “But it’ll take me four days to fix. I have to order in one of the  parts from New Miami.”

“That’s fine,” Vash shrugs easily. “It’ll give me more time in this lovely town.”

Wolfwood sees his opening, so he interjects. “If you want to get to know people, you should come to one of our church services.”

Vash’s amicable smile freezes. It’s only for a fleeting moment, but nothing escapes Wolfwood’s notice. “I’m not much of a church-goer, but thank you. I’ll find another way to meet everyone.”

“Dominique’s not eager on letting you back in the bar,” Wolfwood points out and Vash blinks before laughing sheepishly and running a hand through his hair. 

“We’ll see,” Vash says. There’s something oddly compelling about the way the man holds himself, so much so that it borders on strange. The owner of the shop does not notice it, but Wolfwood can sense it, the hairs on the back of his neck rising at the sight of this sunny man. It makes him itch under his skin.

Which is why Wolfwood says, “If you’re not coming to a service, you can at least stop by. I can show you around town.”

“That, I might take you up on,” Vash says with a wink and a salute, before turning back to the shop owner. The owner passes a quick look to Wolfwood before re-engaging with Vash, and Wolfwood’s curiosity is definitely piqued.

Vash the Stampede does not show up to service, but he does hang around the periphery of Wolfwood’s vision for the next couple of days. Wolfwood catches him at the local grocer, the diner’s, in the back alley behind the bar trying to convince the lone bouncer he promises that he’ll behave. 

He does not cause any big trouble. Wolfwood digs into his background, even asks around the big city during one of his visits, but no one in New Miami has heard of Vash the Stampede. They haven’t heard of any news regarding trouble in Wolfwood’s town either. The lack of information confirms Wolfwood’s suspicion that Vash isn’t all that he makes himself out to be. The itch in his skin returns, but he’s not particularly troubled over it. Vash isn’t the first mystery to step into his town.

Their paths keep intersecting more often as the days roll on by, with no signs of a new creature of the night emerging. Vash doesn’t hide the fact that he’s scoping out the town, going door to door and asking people if they’ve seen any weird going-ons. They give him a strange look before pointing him to the town doctor, and then gossiping at the church service about the  rather peculiar man poking his nose around town.

Wolfwood runs into him a few times. One day  turns into two turns into four and Shatterhand apologizes to Vash, saying that he didn’t expect it to take this long to get parts from New Miami. Wolfwood has a feeling that the expedited fee that Shatterhand sends to his supplier isn’t being put to good use, but he saves that for his next trip to the glowing city. Vash is content with the delay and says he enjoys the town's hospitality, which is how Wolfwood truly knows he’s full of shit.

 It’s not that the town is rude or unwelcoming but it’s always been guarded around those that are not their own. It took Wolfwood some time to integrate in as well, but now they see him as some sort of leader, the dark charisma clouding him considered oddly enchanting.Visitors eventually fall into that trap as well, but Vash has yet to do so.

He still doesn’t show up for church service, which only adds to the town gossip, and Vash spends quite a few nights trying to convince Dominique to let him into his bar. He finds and attaches himself to one person every couple of hours; he would look like an overeager tourist if  he hadn’t so proudly announced what he was here for. 

“Father,” Vash greets one day, when Wolfwood sees him sitting at the steps of the statue that stands in the center of the town square. Gallows once hung there, but now an overly expensive carving of the third mayor stands in their place, his last hurrah with the townspeople’s money before he disappeared into the wretched depths of the desert. There was a fountain around it too, but it’s been dried up for years.

“Call me Nick,” Wolfwood says, approaching Vash. He strikes his own cigarette when he comes to a halt, and offers his pack to Vash, who shakes his head.“How’s your hunt going?”

“People are convinced there’s no monster in town,” Vash replies. He’s leaning back against the concrete rim of the fountain, eyes closed behind his translucent yellow glasses.

“And you are?” Wolfwood says in amusement, and Vash nods, patting his belly.

“I have a strong gut feeling,” he replies. “Though one of the grannies told me that if there was one here, I wouldn’t be the one who got to it first.”

“Mm?” 

Vash nods, and fiddles with his glasses, lifting them just enough so that Wolfwood can see him open his eyes. Subconsciously, Wolfwood steps to the side, eclipsing the artificial sun for Vash. It’s part out of fascination too; he’s never seen eyes that blue and endless.

“It would be you,”  Vash replies, and Wolfwood laughs.

“They do see me as an errand boy,” Wolfwood admits. “Pick up groceries, drive to New Miami for supplies, kill a beast, write wedding vows for their illiterate kids. So on, so forth.”

“So on, so forth.” Vash takes his glasses off completely, but closes his eyes and hangs his head back. He looks like a cat, sunning in the warmth. Wolfwood finds himself studying Vash inadvertently. He’s the most colourful thing that’s rolled into town in a while. Wolfwood sees the parts where Vash’s strange red coat has been resewn, the scuffs on his boots, the black pants wrapped around muscular thighs that slide out from the parting of the coat.

Wolfwood  wouldn’t ascribe something as mundane as being lethal to Vash the Stampede. But he has an instinct that’s  rarely wrong, and has a feeling Vash is more than just a mercenary traveling a barren planet. 

“What are you?” Wolfwood asks bluntly, and Vash cracks open an eye.

“I think you know,” Vash replies easily.  “Just a man looking to eat.”

But Wolfwood knows that Vash is more than just that. He doesn’t know what, exactly, but he keeps an eye out. Yet, Vash remains as benign as ever.

It’s fine.

Wolfwood has other things to focus on anyways. He’s had an uptick in requests for housecalls from his congregation members, each wanting guidance for this thing or that, which takes up more of his time than he’d like despite the fact that they always feed him well. The dinners aren’t appealing at the moment; his appetite has reduced, overrun by his fascination for Vash.

He runs his own errands, gives spiritual advice, lends a listening ear to some of the older folks, baptizes the two new children born in town, and buries one of Dominique’s bartenders after he supposedly gets into a fight with a giant lizard that had perched near his home. Wolfwood hears a rumor that it’s actually because he cleared Zazie for what he’s worth in a poker game and mocked him for it afterwards too, and Zazie had just gotten even.

Whatever the truth is, the town continues to exist under the giant halogen sun suspended over it, brightly lit for exactly ten hours of the day before it starts to automatically dim, mimicking a sunset. Once it turns off completely, it is nothing but the shadow of a strange white orb hanging in the sky, its underside illuminated by the neon signs at Dominique’s bar like an ominous moon. 

It is during one of these sunsets that Wolfwood runs into Vash again. He spies him from a distance, a lone tiny figure on top of the inn, shielding his eyes from the false sun as he watches it get dimmer. Wolfwood thinks to shout at him from below, but then comes up with something better. 

Five minutes later, he’s opening the rooftop door to see Vash reclining on a lawn chair. He’s still wrapped in that deep red trench coat of his, though the front is unbuttoned enough to reveal a pale chest and the collar of a black tank top. Vash’s head turns just a bit as Wolfwood steps onto the roof, and he raises a hand in greeting.

“Your sunsets are rather nice,” Vash says as Wolfwood approaches him. “I’ve never seen one quite like this before.”

“Better than staying in the dark,” Wolfwood points out.

“Is it?” Vash asks, and there’s a strange colour to his words that Wolfwood senses. It makes him want to roll his eyes. 

“People get down on themselves if there’s no sun,” Wolfwood says instead. “Also puts them at risk of getting eaten by a creature of the night, as you put it.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t be here if there was nothing to it,” Vash says. “What are they saying about me in New Miami?”

That makes Wolfwood pause. If anyone is the definition of discreet, it is him— he backtracks through everyone he spoke to during his visit into the bustling resort city, and tries to see if he had spotted a red trench coat hidden in the rafters anywhere. He doesn’t give away any sort of apprehension at being caught though.

“Nothing interesting enough,” Wolfwood replies, partly honest. The lack of information on Vash is a curiosity in and of itself; people in that type of profession think they roam in the shadows, but they all leave a trail behind. Wolfwood isn’t deterred though; it just means that Vash must be known as something else.

“I’m not an interesting man,” Vash says lazily as the sun dims out completely. He keeps his hand over his face, flattening it out and Wolfwood watches at the sky for a few minutes, curious about the man beside him.

Wolfwood has a thought, and turns to Vash, only to see the other man’s hand has dropped to his side. His mouth hangs open as he softly snores, and Wolfwood stares at the sleeping man.

“Great,” Wolfwood mutters and decides to retreat, but not before leaning over and pulling the collar of Vash’s coat closed.

He’ll figure him out, sooner or later.

During the end of one of his services, Wolfwood steps out to help one of the grannies down the ramp. In the distance, he sees Vash leaning against the post of one of the convenience stores, watching the church crowd eagerly.

The halogen sun is dimming, casting an ideal golden glow over everything. Even from this distance, Wolfwood can feel Vash’s gaze. It’s piercing in almost a preternatural way, odd for a moment, like Vash is reaching out to him. But Vash simply salutes; not wanting to give away the fact that he was drawn, Wolfwood nods in return.

When he’s done saying his goodbyes to everyone, Wolfwood sees that Vash is still at the same post. Wolfwood waves again, and Vash pushes off the post. He starts ambling across the street, but doesn’t meet Wolfwood where he is. Instead, he stands a good ten feet away from the church, looking up at the steeple.

“Confession tonight?” Vash asks, and Wolfwood makes an ambivalent sound.

“You’re welcome to come in,” he says and Vash shakes his head. 

“Not my scene,” Vash replies. “I could meet you at Dominique’s instead, if you want.”

“She’s letting you back in?” Wolfwood asks dryly and Vash responds with a sardonic smile.

“She says she doesn’t know whether to trust me or not,” Vash says. He’s wearing his yellow glasses now, diluting the way he looks at Wolfwood. “I was hoping you would put in a good word for me.”

“All you do is loiter,” Wolfwood points out and Vash shrugs.

“I think we’ve run into each other enough,” Vash says. “You’re the only one in town that’s properly spoken with me.”

It’s because Wolfwood is the only one in town that isn’t constantly in threat of getting dragged by an undertow of fear. Vash had been fairly benign at the beginning but he’s been hanging around enough that people have started to look at him with some distrust. He doesn’t do anything, but he has money and he has a gun and he’s supposedly here to kill or capture something.

Wolfwood guesses he should be feeling some fear as well. There’s never been a challenge that’s come to this town though, that Wolfwood hasn’t been able to easily meet head on.

He finds out what Vash truly is during another trip into New Miami. It is by accident this time— Wolfwood isn’t searching for information on Vash as much as he’s politely confronting the man who has been ripping Shatterhand off by sending him old, out-of-date parts on delay, relying on their sleepy town’s lack of real connection to the outside world. 

“Wait— fuck, wait!” the man screeches as Wolfwood slams him against the brick alleyway wall by his neck again. It’s hard enough to make the back of the man’s head bleed. The alleyway stinks too strongly of sewage and trash, so the scent of iron barely permeates Wolfwood’s senses. 

“What?” Wolfwood asks briskly, wanting to get this over with. The closer dawn draws, the more he itches to get out of town. New Miami also exists under a halogen sun but it’s more unnervingly realistic than Wolfwood would like, more true to life than what he’s been used to for the past few years.

“I have some information that you’ve been looking for,” the man gasps, wincing. He’s already got a black eye for being too cocky when Wolfwood showed up to his shop, but he’s quite clearly gunning for another. Wolfwood winds up his fist and the man squawks. “About the new guy in your town!”

“The who?” Wolfwood grunts, though he already knows the answer, because there’s only one person he’s asked around about in New Miami in recent memory. 

“Don’t fuck around—argh,” Wolfwood ignores the man’s cries and  just rattles him this time, not wanting to have him pass out. 

“If you let me go, I’ll tell you,” the man tries to bargain and Wolfwood barks out a laugh so loud the other man nearly bursts into tears. 

“If you tell me, I’ll let you go,” Wolfwood says mockingly, but it seems to be enough for the man. “It better be good. I have somewhere to be soon.”

“He’s known as the Humanoid Typhoon,” the man rasps, and Wolfwood raises an eyebrow. “He’s a gunslinger that wreaks havoc wherever he goes.”

“Hasn’t done it here,” Wolfwood says, and the other man shakes his head.

“He says he doesn’t kill, but he brings down towns hard enough that death would be a better option,” the man says and Wolfwood is mildly surprised to hear that Vash doesn’t kill. However, a non-murderous gunslinger seems exactly like the type of walking contradiction he expects Vash to be. “He’s not even human.”

That piques Wolfwood’s interest, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he waits expectantly for the other man to continue. The runt of a man looks like he wants more for his words, so Wolfwood digs his fingers into the bruises on his neck, reminding him that life itself is a gift.

“He’s— achh — he’s a demon,” the man gasps, and Wolfwood’s eyebrows shoot into the stratosphere. “They exist, even on Gunsmoke.”

“Hm,” Wolfwood, a man that has seen many an eldritch creature, says contemplatively. “You know what, I think I will kill you.”

“I’m not lying,” the man sobs as Wolfwood starts to squeeze his neck. Wolfwood doesn’t pay attention to him, not at first, just continues to close in on the man’s windpipe. It’s not until he sees the light start to dim in the man’s eyes that Wolfwood finally lets him go. 

“Stop ripping off Shatterhand, or you’re going to find yourself dead next time,” Wolfwood says as the man drops to the ground in a crumpled heap, moaning in pain.Wolfwood doesn’t spare him a second glance as he strikes a cigarette and walks out of the alleyway.

He has a name now. And one more hour in New Miami gives Wolfwood the answers he’s been seeking.

“So, they’ve let me back in,” someone says over the din of the bar as they slide into the seat beside Wolfwood. The bar bustles behind them, being one of the busier nights in town.

“I put in a good word for you,” Wolfwood replies, raising his glass in greeting and beckoning the bartender over. The bartender gives Vash a weary look but refills Wolfwood’s whiskey before pouring one for Vash. “I heard Shatterhand finally fixed your gun.”

Vash raises his glass, nodding and they clink it in a small toast. Wolfwood only pretends to sip as he watches Vash drink, looking too closely as the other man licks his lips and puts his glass down.

“Are you heading back on the road?” Wolfwood asks, and Vash opens his mouth. He cuts him off. “Right, you’ve got a thing you’re hunting. What was it again?”

“A—”

“If you say a creature of the night, I’m going to get Dominique to kick you right back out,” Wolfwood says flatly, and Vash laughs. It’s a sunny laugh, contradictory to what Wolfwood’s heard about his nature. Wolfwood draws in closer without thinking, till they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder.

“Hah,” Vash replies, bumping against Wolfwood good-naturedly. “You might kick me out anyways if I tell you what it is.”

“Try me,” Wolfwood says, giving a crooked grin in return. The expression makes Vash pause, and Wolfwood reigns it in. He doesn’t want to give away his hand, not during this conversation.

Vash looks around, then in an over-dramatic and conspiratorial manner, leans in and says “A vampire.”

Wolfwood stares back at him for a moment; they’re so close that he can feel Vash’s warm exhale against his face. The changing neon light behind the bar makes his eyes seem near-otherworldly. Or completely so, if what the man in New Miami had said was true.

Then he guffaws, loud and clear, causing Vash to startle back.

“I’m serious,” Vash says petulantly, though he starts to smile again.

“I know you are,” Wolfwood replies, gesturing to the bartender to pour them another drink. “That’s what makes it funnier.”

“You don’t believe it exists or you don’t think I can catch it?” Vash says, and Wolfwood just smiles in return.

Wolfwood knows intimately about the missing people, the bodies that turned up drained in a crater ten miles north of here half a decade ago. He knows about the dead animals, knows about the way even the police from New Miami had got involved a few years prior when a tourist had gone missing here. He had still been new to the town at the time, getting his bearings, but he remembers it clearly.

Even now, when that bouncer had been found mauled by an animal, people hypothesized that whatever had terrorized them all those years past is now back. Wolfwood has done his best to assuage the townsfolk’s fears, but it may go to waste if Vash reveals what he really is to the public at large.

“Are you really a gunslinger?” Wolfwood asks, and Vash snorts.

“As much as you are a priest,” He replies and to that, Wolfwood raises his glass again. The alcohol has stopped burning down his throat a long time ago, but it still gives him a mildly pleasant buzz.

“So you catch your vampire,” Wolfwood says. The bartender still looks distrustfully at Vash,  as do a couple of nosy people down the bar. Wolfwood isn’t quite sure he likes the audience, but it’s not like he can trap Vash somewhere private right now. He has no use for an interrogation at the moment anyways; he simply wants to prod. He leans over to give the eavesdroppers a warning glance and they immediately turn away. Wolfwood moves his attention back to Vash and asks, “Then what?”

“I kind of like this town,” Vash shrugs, looking mildly amused. “Maybe I’ll stay here for a bit. Attend service.”

“You’re just one joke after another tonight,” Wolfwood huffs out a half-laugh and Vash grins.

“As long as you think I’m funny,” He replies. “Everyone else seems to be a little scared of me.”

“Do they have a reason to be?” 

“I’m sure they think they do,” Vash sounds thoughtful as he says this. “Do you?”

“What?”

“Have a reason to be scared of me.”

The short answer is no. The long answer is that Wolfwood has found out what Vash is, of how he’s left trails of destruction and leveled towns in his wake. Vash is a demon, a hot import from Earth that had been left for dead on this barren planet and has instead grown into a menace. He’s not known as Vash the Stampede, but as the Humanoid Typhoon, a man that hates humanity and had brought July City to its knees. It may seem hard to reconcile that reputation with the cheerful man across from him, but Wolfwood has no problem doing so.

He does not find himself on guard; instead, he finds himself fascinated. That in itself is a danger.

“I’m flat out terrified,” Wolfwood says blandly. “Out of all the things that have rolled into town, you might be the only one to put up a worthwhile fight.”

“You really know how to make someone feel special,” Vash drawls, and Wolfwood gives him a dry look.

“As long as you don’t bring any old troubles into town,” Wolfwood says, a little pointedly. Vash clearly picks it up, and darkness flashes across his face so fleetingly that it may have been the trick of the light. But Wolfwood is rather attuned to these things, and it doesn’t miss his notice. Vash doesn’t act like he hates humans. And maybe he doesn’t. But every creature that can form a sentence has a hateful side to them, no matter how dormant it becomes. “And don’t go causing any new ones either.”

“If I do, I think I might know a guy who can absolve me.”

“If you do,” Wolfwood drains the remainder of his glass and sets it on the table. He reaches over to pat Vash’s shoulder and keeps his hand there, squeezing the fabric gently. “Even God might not be able to save you.”

Eventually Wolfwood runs into Vash in the middle of a house call. It was inevitable, but it still takes him by surprise.

He is doing a visit on the outskirts of the town, at a residence belonging to the well-to-do Bracker family. Said family is currently sitting around the table, a low candle flickering in the center as the wind gently rattles the windowpanes in the parlor room. They’ve drunk the tea Wolfwood has infused with his holy water, and are currently slipping into a stupor, slumping against their seats. It’s dark outside, the halogen sun having long since set.

It’s a typical housecall. The patriarch is sick, and believes that Wolfwood can cure him. Wolfwood can’t, and Wolfwood has never claimed to. Even if he could, he wouldn’t do it for a man who has currently been trying to make the town a labrat for warlike chemicals by contaminating its water supply, in exchange for a fat reward from a pharmaceutical company. 

Wolfwood has been the only unlucky one to fall victim to it, having caught Bracker’s men and dispatched them but not before they tried to pin them down and shove a good dose down his throat. It had burned his insides, and it took him two whole weeks to recover. Bracker doesn’t know that it was him there, since none of his men returned. That had probably spooked him off, and now he’s trying to get Wolfwood to pull him back from death’s door.

Bracker hasn’t attempted anything since then. Wolfwood would have addressed this problem earlier, but he had been distracted by the new arrival in town. And even if he did, it would have been buried under the curiosity that is Vash the Stampede. After recent revelations, Wolfwood is bent on knowing the entirety of this man. This creature. But for now, he has the Brackers. 

The sedative in the tea took effect quickly, like it normally does. Wolfwood never drains anyone fully, anyways, save for the guy that got into it with Zazie, but he prefers them to be pliant. It doesn’t taste as good as hunted prey, but it also saves him a lot of time when it comes to cleaning up.

No one has ever questioned the marks anyways, or the strange burst of vitality they feel for a few days before they enter into a faint spell of weakness. The bite mark normally heals by the time they all wake up, and no one is any wiser.  For the senior Bracker patriarch, he will feel on top of the world for a week before he drops dead. Wolfwood can make up some shitty story about how there’s only so much he can do to overpower God’s will, and remind everyone that he’s never claimed to be a faith healer. 

Which is why it’s surprised Wolfwood that what he’s done has potentially spread far enough to attract a gunslinger into town. Wolfwood has only killed a handful of people in town, but that had been years ago, when he had been less in control. Maybe Vash is simply following a trail that had gone cold a long time back.

Wolfwood shakes his head; he shouldn’t be thinking about Vash at a time like this. It’s not a hurried process, but it has to be a well-timed one if he wants to feed enough and have the bite marks heal in time. He picks up the wrinkled arm of George Bracker the First and grimaces, not particularly enthusiastic about this meal.

His teeth puncture thin skin, and the blood that trickles into his mouth tastes weak. Wolfwood almost wants to roll his eyes at how terrible it is; human blood is delicious most of the time but Bracker’s tastes watered down and vile, like the man himself. Wolfwood wedges his teeth in a little deeper but the taste gets no better. 

Fleetingly, he wonders what Vash would taste like, being what he is. Wolfwood had seen grotesque demons bleed out thick, oily black blood before, but he’s never seen a humanoid like Vash. It would definitely beat the old, musty taste of this man. 

Wolfwood catches his train of thought and puts the brakes on it. He sucks in the man’s wrist, trying to distract himself and it works only because the man’s blood turns more disgusting. 

“Shit,” Wolfwood murmurs, dropping the arm. It’s bad enough that he doesn’t feel like feeding anymore. He’s not so desperate anymore that he’ll drink this shitty blood. 

He can still go a few more days without feeding. It’ll be fine. Wolfwood wipes his lips with the back of his hand, wanting to get the taste off, when the doorbell rings. He pauses and frowns as the sound echoes through the home. Most of the town knows not to disturb a house receiving a call from the local priest, and Wolfwood has a creeping feeling as to who it is as he trudges towards the door. 

It is both a surprise and not, to see Vash leaning against the door when Wolfwood opens it. 

“You’re not one of the Brackers,” Vash says with some of the worst fake concern Wolfwood has ever heard. “Or are you?”

“They’re currently engaged,” Wolfwood says. “I’m doing a housecall.”

Vash cocks an eyebrow, all in good nature. Wolfwood sees some of the attitude that had been translated into his wanted posters. There’s one that‘a neatly folded and tucked away into his desk drawer at home, a souvenir from a decrepit bartender in the city, and Wolfwood has resisted every childish urge to look at it. 

Like it matters anyways, since the real thing is in front of him. 

“Ha,” Vash says. “I was actually looking for you. I went to Dominique’s and they said you’d be here.”

It’s Wolfwood’s turn to look bemused. “What for?”

“Just to grab a drink,” Vash shrugs, and Wolfwood narrows his eyes. “I’m bored, and you’re my only friend in town. But if you’re busy…”

“I am,” Wolfwood replies, briskly but not unkindly. Vash looks undeterred. His eyes drift across Wolfwood’s face and narrow for a moment, before the corner of his lips quirk up. 

“You have something here,” Vash scratches the corner of his own mouth and Wolfwood mirrors the action. Vash shakes his head and reaches forward, swiping the skin and drawing his thumb back. Wolfwood sees a streak of red on it. Vash licks his thumb in front of Wolfwood, sucking the tip between his teeth. 

“Mm,” Vash says, stepping back down and moving off the porch as Wolfwood stares at him. “Enjoy dinner.”

With that, he slinks away into the darkness between the dim streetlights. Wolfwood stares at the spot where Vash once stood and thinks, shit.    

The next day, Wolfwood catches Vash staring up at the halogen sun in the middle of the town square.  Wolfwood is standing under the veranda of Dominique’s, having a smoke with her as they both watch Vash look mezmerized by the false star, the one that has all the brightness of the sun but none of its effects.

“The hell is he thinking?” Dominique mutters under her breath and Wolfwood huffs, smoke billowing out of his nose. 

When Vash finally tilts his head down and scans the area, his eyes land on Wolfwood. Wolfwood meets his gaze with equal confidence, despite the slight trepidation he feels on the inside.

He knows exactly what the other man is thinking.

Vash the Stampede finally comes to church.

It is on a lonely  night, when the  sun has been put away. Wolfwood leans against the pew, not bothering to look back at Vash as he hears the heavy wooden doors creak open. They have only known each other for so long, but Wolfwood can recognize the weight of Vash’s footsteps across the aged wooden floors. The sound is measured, cautious, even though Wolfwood knows the moment he turns around, he’ll be greeted by a sunny smile.

He exhales smoke out of his nostrils like a dragon, and stubs the small nub of his cigarette out on the pew, the tiny scorch mark joining many others.

It’s a shame. Wolfwood really does like Vash. He does what he needs to survive but the gunslinger’s presence has alleviated his mood over the past few weeks. Vash has done such a good job of playing tourist that it feels like he’s been doing it for Wolfwood’s  entertainment. Unfortunately, it must come to an end.

“There’s no confession tonight,” Wolfwood calls out as the footsteps slow to a halt. He looks over his shoulder to see Vash, wearing the same friendly smile he always does. He raises a hand in greeting to Wolfwood while the other one rests on the butt of his freshly repaired .45. Long, gloved fingers drum against the leather of the holster, and Wolfwood’s eyes drift towards it momentarily.

It will be interesting. Wolfwood has faced off against many things, but nothing where he has been so… compelled.

“Pity,” Vash responds easily, looking around. “I was hoping we would be able to talk.”

 Wolfwood turns back and raises his own hand, gesturing at Vash to join him. A few more moments of silence, then laughter rings out, resonating bright and clear, reaching the ribbed vaulting up above. Wolfwood’s glad he’s not facing Vash, so that the other man doesn’t see the surprise he temporarily feels that his plan worked. He schools his expression back into nonchalance and slowly stands up, brushing off the front of his pants. Wolfwood hasn’t bothered to holster his own gun; he lets it hang lazily from his hand as he turns on Vash.

“Looks like there’s truly no secrets between us then,” Vash says, barely looking perturbed that he’s been figured out. He stays rooted to the spot; underneath the decaying floorboards, a sigil has been painted to trap any demon that walks upon it. Vash cannot move past it, something he’s quickly found out.

Taking his time, Wolfwood slowly rises to his feet. His fingers itch so he grabs another cigarette from his inside pocket.

“I’ve got a lighter if you need,” Vash says, and Wolfwood snorts as he pulls out his own.

“Thanks but no thanks,” he says, lighting the smoke and taking a drag. “So, Vash the Stampede. You want to talk.”

“Sure do,” Vash replies, his smile still clear through the cloud of smoke that bellows out of Wolfwood’s nose. “Well, more like I have a polite request to put forward.”

“Shoot.”

“I know what you are,” Vash says with conviction, and Wolfwood barks out a laugh so loud that he almost drops his cigarette. “Stop feeding on your congregation.”

“Since you asked so politely,” Wolfwood replies in a fake saccharine voice, and Vash appears undeterred.

“I’m serious. You’re going to kill the people in this town if you keep going at this rate, and there’s not many of them to begin with.”

“Very rich, coming from a demon. And I’m not killing anyone. For the most part.”

“I do good,” Vash replies, scuffing the heel of his boot against the wood. Wolfwood huffs, and Vash continues. “I didn’t choose to be this way. But it’s handy if I want to save people. Which I do, by the way. I know what you heard about me in New Miami. But that man is long gone.”

“Hm,” Wolfwood hums and turns his head back to the front. He tips back till he sees the ceiling through his eyelashes, his eyes half-lidded. He can smell just a hint of the type of vitality thrumming under Vash’s skin. “How did you know?”

“I always had a hunch,” Vash replies. “You’re not exactly a big secret in some circles.” Wolfwood grimaces; now that he knows Vash, he knows exactly what circles he’s referring to. Wolfwood doesn’t have a bounty on his head but he’s not surprised that he has stories that precede him. Before this town, he had run rampant through the underbellies of big cities, freshly turned by someone who ambushed him in an alley, and incredibly hungry.“But I wanted to see if it was true.”

“And if I say no? Will you kill me?”

“Kill you?”  Vash pauses, genuine confusion in his voice. Which, given what he is, gives Wolfwood a small start. “What right would I have to kill anyone?”

Wolfwood frowns. It’s not the same spiel he’s heard from all the other hot heads that have rolled through this town; folks tend to make it clear that they lust for violence and glory and will do anything for either. There had been one particular gunslinger that had delivered a speech so long that not even the bullet Wolfwood lodged in their head stopped their voice from echoing in his ears for weeks after.

He stands up, and takes his time brushing off the front of his suit. Slowly, he steps into the aisle, coming face to face with Vash.

“That’s a new one,” Wolfwood says through another bellow of smoke, the tobacco smelling cheap and over-toasted.  “I’ve never met a demon looking to save the world before.”

Wolfwood narrows his eyes, a bemused smile uncurling across his face. His hand creeps down, but Vash’s gaze doesn’t waver. Insead, those strange blue eyes remain locked with Wolfwood’s, even when Wolfwood draws out his gun. Vash only takes a fleeting look at it before looking back up.

“I’m not here to save the world or myself,” Vash shrugs. “Just some regular folk.”

There seems to be no bravado behind his words. Yet, Wolfwood doesn’t doubt that if he pulled the trigger, Vash would find a way to dodge it without moving. His presence has been so strange in the town, so new and so fresh. Wolfwood does not think he actually wants to kill Vash— Vash is too intriguing for it. Too endearing even, but he dares not level it such.

“What puts you above me? I am a creature of god,” Wolfwood internally frowns at his own words, despite the firmness with which he delivers them. “Somewhat. I’m ordained, at least.”

“There is no salvation for things like us,” Vash says, voice unwavering, even as the muzzle of a gun stands in greeting to him. “We only have each other to keep ourselves in check.”

That makes Wolfwood laugh again, more heartily this time. It’s a stupid statement yet coming out of Vash’s mouth, it feels like it makes perfect sense. 

“So,” Wolfwood drawls out. “You’re a gunslinger that doesn’t kill, and a demon with a heart of gold.”

“I also look pretty good on my wanted posters too,” Vash quips.

“The Humanoid Typhoon. I saw.”

“Did it interest you?”

The question makes Wolfwood pause for enough time that tension starts to grow taut between them, winding itself tightly like a string. 

“Not as much as the other things did,” Wolfwood replies, plucking at it. His eyes flit down to the wood, where the sigil is drawn underneath the planks.  “Are you going to fight me?”

“If you think you’d like it,” Vash grins toothily, and Wolfwood just barely resists rolling his eyes. He throws his cigarette butt to the ground and stomps the embers out with the heel of his shoe, all while holding the gun steadily in Vash’s face. “What do you say?”

 Wolfwood grunts and weighs his chances. He hasn’t seen Vash fight, but a reputation like that precedes him. And with what Wolfwood heard, he thinks Vash is full of shit when he says he doesn’t kill.

It piques his curiosity. Vash may be a demon, but they are on Wolfwood’s territory. If Wolfwood defeats him, he could even try his blood. It’s blasphemous enough to be a vampire but to drink from a demon would be the last nail on the coffin, as it were. 

“Only if you make it good,” Wolfwood replies, and lowers his gun to the approximation of where the outer ring of the sigil has been painted. He shoots once, twice, three times to be sure, the bullets piercing the wood and breaking the seal, allowing Vash to take a sauntering step out.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing any less,” Vash says, and the hand he’s kept on his gun finally moves.

The fight that follows is frenetic. They are natural deviations colliding; Vash and Wolfwood let out their own spray of bullets, battering holes into the pews and the floors and the walls and everywhere but at each other.  The sharp pops echo through the church as they pretend to aim at each other, ducking and diving here and there. Dust kicks up as they dance around each other, ducking and weaving behind the pews. 

Eventually though, they run out of bullets. Wolfwood shoots at Vash’s shadow, cast by the flickering candles in the church, and he hears the soft click of an empty barrel.

“Oh shit,” Vash curses, and Wolfwood sees his opportunity as the man digs in somewhere in that strange trenchcoat of his for another magazine. Wolfwood lunges, crossing the distance between them in wide strides and hears a soft  “uh oh” before he empties the rest of his clip on the ground and throws his gun to the side.

They collide, and Wolfwood almost successfully tackles Vash to the ground. Vash manages to dig his heels in at the last moment and their supernatural strength seems to be evenly matched, because Wolfwood feels like he’s hit a brick wall. He hears wood splinter from underneath them with the force of impact, and Vash shoves him off for a moment. Wolfwood doesn’t step far, panting lightly as he watches a sheen of sweat form across Vash’s forehead.

For the briefest moment, Wolfwood waits for Vash to draw on some more hellish power, for his eyes to turn black, or claws to grow, or for him to set the arches on fire with a snap of his fingers. He gets a fist in his face instead, hard enough to make his teeth rattle before Vash draws his hand back with an apologetic look. The sting of pain stirs something within Wolfwood, and he tries to ignore it because he’s fucking fighting, for Christ’s sake.

He swings back and the fight becomes a proper brawl, the two of them crashing into each other repeatedly. Vash has a strange refinement to his technique, not quite a soldier or an officer’s way of fighting, but someone who has gotten into one too many fights on his own. Wolfwood meets him back with equal force and stamina, and does his best not to focus on the constant buzzing in his head, one that gets louder every time his fist comes into contact with Vash’s ribs.

Wolfwood catches Vash’s wrist by chance and twists, slamming him hard enough against the wall to leave a dent in it. He wrenches Vash’s hands up his back, harsh enough for them to make cracking sounds. 

“You’d get your ass kicked just to save a few townies?” Wolfwood leans in, rasping beside Vash’s ear. He pins him with his whole body, Vash a solid weight underneath him. 

“I’d kick yours for that too,” Vash quips back and shoves off the wall, displaying some of his inhuman strength again. He whips around and manages to land a heel on the inside of Wolfwood’s knee, making him grit in pain. Heat coils low within him; Wolfwood pretends it’s violence that makes his blood simmer and throws his whole weight at Vash once more.

They crash onto the altar, knocking the table in the center away. There’s the sounds of metal clattering, bowls and goblets falling around them as they wrestle. Vash manages to clock Wolfwood in the jaw, hard enough to make his teeth click, and Wolfwood in turn wrenches his arm away and headbutts him.

Blood blooms from Vash’s nostrils upon impact and suddenly, it’s all that Wolfwood can smell. It is more divine than any other thing he’s smelled before  and it floods his senses immediately, making his head spin. Wolfwood gapes down at Vash for a moment and Vash uses the opening to strongarm them into reversing their positions,  slamming Wolfwood back against the steps.

Wolfwood groans as his skull cracks against the stone, and he tastes Vash’s blood in the air. Maybe it’s a good thing that he has never fought a demon before. Wolfwood’s chest heaves, mouth hanging open as the tang of iron in the air settles on his tongue. Vash straddles him and grabs his wrists in a punishing grip, pinning them against the ground.

They both stare at each other, panting. Wolfwood thinks he may see a black spot or two in his vision but it means nothing as the various burning needs within him start to collide. The one for blood in particular makes his fangs show without him thinking, his teeth sharpening in his mouth with the thought of feeding. Vash has a strained, conflicted look on his face that resonates deeply with Wolfwood. Without thinking, Wolfwood runs his tongue over an elongated fang, trying to press the scent of blood into it.

 Vash’s brows knit, and Wolfwood’s gaze drifts temporarily to the mole underneath his left eye. 

Blood, Wolfwood reminds himself dryly. You want blood.

“Have you ever fed from a demon before?” Vash asks, but it is not a question. No, Wolfwood immediately recognizes it for what it is and his brain blanks out for a moment with the possibility. But the moment he feels the grip of Vash’s thighs around him loosen, just by a fraction, Wolfwood flips them over with a lot more grace than Vash had; it helps too that Vash seems to go along with it.

It’s hard to tell if Vash is dazed or calculating; those blue eyes are so carefully serene that they mask everything. It doesn’t matter, because the moment Wolfwood gets Vash on his back, he’s twisting his fingers through blond hair and yanking, baring Vash’s neck. Wolfwood is barely thinking; he just knows that whatever he’s tasting in the air, he will soon have on his tongue.

He’s met with no resistance at all; instead, he feels hands land on his thighs as he leans down. He sees Vash’s throat bob as he swallows, but hears no protest.

“I haven’t,” Wolfwood replies, and sinks his teeth into the skin.

At the first blossom of blood within his mouth, he immediately knows he cannot go back. It tastes like strange honey, unlike anything he’s ever had before. Even the sweet iron of human blood cannot compare to this. His hands squeeze around Vash’s wrist as his nerves start to slowly spark to life in a way that they haven’t before.

Vash inhales sharply as Wolfwood digs his teeth in just a fraction further, enough to open up a steadier stream of blood. He bears down and Vash gives out something that’s a half-laugh, half grunt of pain. Wolfwood shifts, dropping his weight further along the other man’s body and the movement elicits two low, twin groans from both the men.

Wolfwood doesn’t often lose himself while feeding. He does not know if this is because it is a demon he’s feeding on, or a gunslinger he’s overpowered, but heat rapidly coils in his core as he continues to drink. Gloved fingers tangle through his hair and pull, and Wolfwood just bears down further, hollowing his cheeks to pull more blood out from the broken skin.

Vash’s legs fall apart and Wolfwood wedges himself further between them. They’re both half-hard, Wolfwood perhaps more so as his head starts to spin, overwhelmed by just how good the blood in his mouth tastes. It’s more delicious than anything else he’s ever tasted, better than anyone else he’s ever bested. 

He will drain Vash dry if he’s not careful. Or maybe he won’t— maybe he’ll lose himself instead, an addiction to the taste of Vash’s blood slowly carving into his bones. When he was sixteen, Wolfwood had done a bump off a long fingernail at Dominique’s. It had been laced and the high had lasted him three days. It had been the best high of his life. As he feeds now, the euphoria far surpasses that moment. 

Vash hisses below him, and Wolfwood realizes that they’ve started moving against each other as he feeds, the friction stirring his hunger further. That momentarily brings him back to the moment and with great effort, Wolfwood tears his teeth away. 

Wide eyed look back up at him, brighter than usual. Dark blood trickles out the side of Vash’s neck and Wolfwood licks his lips, tasting the dregs. 

“Is it good?” Vash asks, sounding almost unaffected if it wasn’t for the breathlessness.  Wolfwood is about to cut back with a sarcastic remark but then Vash shifts his legs and fuck, they’re still both hard in a way that Wolfwood doesn’t think he can merely pray away. “Does my blood taste good?”

Wolfwood exhales and runs his tongue over the sharp ridges of his teeth. The remnants of Vash’s blood taste like sparks, ready to ignite. 

“There’s no reason we can’t come to an arrangement,” Vash continues and Wolfwood narrows his eyes. Vash does not respond— instead, he tilts his head, challenging look in his eyes as he bares his neck further. It makes Wolfwood’s throat run dry. He wishes he never tasted a demon’s blood; the euphoria of it has sunk its hooks into his tongue and he cannot let it go.

And, it would be impolite for him to turn down a meal. 

Wolfwood bares his fangs and bites into Vash’s neck again, tearing a new wound against his throat just to make it sting. The blood is no less enrapturing here and Vash lets out a low groan that Wolfwood feels rattle against him. This time it’s Vash who ticks his lower half against Wolfwood and Wolfwood can feel his own eyes roll back behind their lids.

He drops his weight fully against Vash. He’s broader than him by just enough to make it count, pinning his prey completely against the wood. He’s lucky no one else has come to see him carrying out such desecration. Yet Wolfwood figures he can always convince them that this too, was a calling from God.

They rut like animals with no concept of dignity, blood dripping over the hardwood, Vash letting out a throaty laugh and hooking a leg over Wolfwood’s thigh to encourage him further. A hand grips onto Wolfwood’s back as heat and hunger, perpetually unsatiated, intertwine within him, greedily seeking out the blood he drinks. 

Wolfwood’s body chooses his peak before the rest of him recognizes it. He hollows his cheeks and sucks back more blood, feeling it spill out over his lips as he comes, Vash shuddering in step underneath his body. Something he hasn’t felt in a while uncoils within him, crackling like electricity, making his nerves sizzle in its wake. Wolfwood raises his head and gasps, his chin smeared with blood, his lips dripping.

Vash’s neck is a mess yet he still has a lopsided grin, like he’s been mauled by nothing more vicious than a cat. Wolfwood pants out of habit more than anything, pushing up and rolling off of Vash. He slumps onto the floor beside him; Vash’s blood sings in him, loud and vibrant in its darkness. 

A human will not taste the same after this. A human will not be enough. 

Vash was absolutely aware of his actions.

“What did you do to me?” Wolfwood rasps to the vaulted ceilings above and hears a throaty laughter beside him. A hand creeps over to his, nudging his little finger till it’s hooked around Vash’s. Vash holds it up, same open look of naivety hiding the face of a man that has ensnared a vampire. 

“Isn’t this much better than preying on your poor congregation?” Vash says cheerfully, and Wolfwood has the urge to reach over and punch him in the face. Strangely, he’s fine letting Vash swing their hands back and forth like they’re two school kids. “I’m not so easy to fully drain either.”

Wolfwood yanks on Vash’s hand, tearing his glove off to bare skin pale.  He can see the veins crawling underneath it.

“And what do you expect me to do now?” Wolfwood says roughly. Strangely, it doesn’t feel like his world has crumbled at the taste of this new thing, or that he’s about to lose everything. It has simply and immediately rearranged itself around this new desire of his, a fact that may be more lethal than anything else. “Follow you around the desert as you collect more vampires?”

“It’ll only be you,” Vash says. “Every now and then, a couple of insurance agents too, but not in the same way. They’re just there to make sure I don’t bring down buildings wherever I go.”

“A charmed life,” Wolfwood says dryly, as if his mind hasn’t already packed its bags already. Blood, blood, blood. It is going to drive him to a brink, if he cannot have this sort of blood again. “And what of the day time? Do you expect me to hide every time the sun is up?”

“We can figure that out later,” Vash replies, closing his hand in a loose wrist, then tight. The bulge of his vein draws Wolfwood’s eyes. “Or I can just stay here. This town is rather peaceful.”

“I barely know you.”

“Don’t you?”

If Wolfwood bites again, he’s going to be tied to Vash. One of them will have to tether the other, and Vash is the first person who’s ever presented a real challenge to Wolfwood. 

If Wolfwood lets Vash go, he’ll forget the taste of his blood within mere years. Vash will become a memory, this night a temporary high, never meant to be chased again except for within the echoes of his dreams, something that will never be tasted again. Wolfwood can continue to exist in this forgotten speck of a town, feeding until the village runs dry.

…Maybe. If he’s lucky. Wolfwood knows that’s rather optimistic, given that he still remembers each flavour, each note of every person he’s ever fed on.

Craning his head up, Wolfwood sinks his teeth in. In the back of his head, he thinks of how all it took was for some special blood and an interesting person to draw him out of the safety and surety of this town. Years of being a man of faith slowly wash away with the vitality that sinks into him as he drinks Vash’s tainted blood.

It’s fine though. Wolfwood has always been built by his faith. But he has only survived through violence.