[He listened to the words, and it was obvious by the way he just stood there immediately afterward that he was digesting them, trying to think about how they made him feel. It wasn't a good feeling, he knew that much. But glancing back at the two of them, at how easily Vash had been soothed by being around one of his own, when all Wolfwood ever seemed to do was cause him pain, feeling the thoughts swirling around in his head after what had just happened? He didn't feel like it was a good idea to answer, not right now. There was too much to process, too many heavy things to feel, and he was too tired for his brain to be anything but a fucking mess, which was the last thing they needed, especially with the way he'd started all of this, with his sudden inability to keep it all down like he used to.
Which was why the only reaction Vash would get out of that as he walked away to collect their things was a soft, noncommital grunt and a nod. He didn't even know if he'd be able to tell he'd reacted at all.
Getting them into a clean, safe room was comfortably routine, at this point. Even before he'd settled the Punisher against the wall and set Vash's bag gently on the little breakfast table, he was instinctively glancing at the windows, turning to check the locks were functional, poking his head into the en suite, walking over to the window to make sure it was latched properly. They were habits built upon years and years of working with the Eye, and it wasn't until he felt his foggy brain beginning to wonder why he wasn't hearing any of the normal sounds he'd come to associate with checking into an inn for the night - hushed voices from below, people and cars and dogs in the streets, distant sounds of water running through pipes - that he remembered that they weren't things they would probably need to worry about while they were here. There was no one else in the damned town. Hadn't been for days.
So he'd turned to watch Vash get the other settled, blinked dumbly at Vash reassuring him he'd come down in a bit, and...just nodded. It was an unspoken permission that he took silently, casting his eyes down as he turned and walked out the door, down the stairs, into the bar, and around the back of the counter to search through what hadn't already been looted. It was...Weird pickings, to be honest. Alcohol was one of the last things you needed in a survival situation, unless you wanted to try and use it for first aid - not exactly the best solution, but if you were short on actual medical supplies, you took what you could get - but it was also a high-ticket item. People paid top dollar for their vices when they were in stressful situations, or they stole what they could find. And the number of people who turned to the sauce on No Man's Land when things got tough could have very well outnumbered those who didn't.
He was lucky enough to find a few bottles of cheap whiskey, though. Not the good stuff, but he didn't care if it was the good stuff right now. He sat down at one of the tables and didn't waste any time on the first bottle, popping the cork out with his teeth and slamming the entire thing back in one go. It burned like fire in his throat and made his stomach churn when he finished it off and threw it against the far wall. But his metabolism was as fucky as it had ever been. It wasn't long before he could feel the burn of it seeping out into his blood, through his chest, and as he felt the stuff beginning to roll down his shoulders and into his fingers, he decided he could take the next bottle a little more slowly.
He still didn't bother with a glass, though. It wasn't worth the time or the energy that required it. Taking it that slowly meant there was more of a chance of it wearing off before he was well and truly past the point of drinking himself under the table.
Which was why, later, when they came looking for him, he would be found with the almost completely empty bottle tucked in the crook of his arm against his chest, where he lay with his head on the table. He didn't even seem to have tried to get comfortable. No, he'd simply gone until the room had spun enough that he'd put his head down, only for a minute, just a minute, until the room settled, honest. That was all it took for him to pass clean out.]
no subject
Which was why the only reaction Vash would get out of that as he walked away to collect their things was a soft, noncommital grunt and a nod. He didn't even know if he'd be able to tell he'd reacted at all.
Getting them into a clean, safe room was comfortably routine, at this point. Even before he'd settled the Punisher against the wall and set Vash's bag gently on the little breakfast table, he was instinctively glancing at the windows, turning to check the locks were functional, poking his head into the en suite, walking over to the window to make sure it was latched properly. They were habits built upon years and years of working with the Eye, and it wasn't until he felt his foggy brain beginning to wonder why he wasn't hearing any of the normal sounds he'd come to associate with checking into an inn for the night - hushed voices from below, people and cars and dogs in the streets, distant sounds of water running through pipes - that he remembered that they weren't things they would probably need to worry about while they were here. There was no one else in the damned town. Hadn't been for days.
So he'd turned to watch Vash get the other settled, blinked dumbly at Vash reassuring him he'd come down in a bit, and...just nodded. It was an unspoken permission that he took silently, casting his eyes down as he turned and walked out the door, down the stairs, into the bar, and around the back of the counter to search through what hadn't already been looted. It was...Weird pickings, to be honest. Alcohol was one of the last things you needed in a survival situation, unless you wanted to try and use it for first aid - not exactly the best solution, but if you were short on actual medical supplies, you took what you could get - but it was also a high-ticket item. People paid top dollar for their vices when they were in stressful situations, or they stole what they could find. And the number of people who turned to the sauce on No Man's Land when things got tough could have very well outnumbered those who didn't.
He was lucky enough to find a few bottles of cheap whiskey, though. Not the good stuff, but he didn't care if it was the good stuff right now. He sat down at one of the tables and didn't waste any time on the first bottle, popping the cork out with his teeth and slamming the entire thing back in one go. It burned like fire in his throat and made his stomach churn when he finished it off and threw it against the far wall. But his metabolism was as fucky as it had ever been. It wasn't long before he could feel the burn of it seeping out into his blood, through his chest, and as he felt the stuff beginning to roll down his shoulders and into his fingers, he decided he could take the next bottle a little more slowly.
He still didn't bother with a glass, though. It wasn't worth the time or the energy that required it. Taking it that slowly meant there was more of a chance of it wearing off before he was well and truly past the point of drinking himself under the table.
Which was why, later, when they came looking for him, he would be found with the almost completely empty bottle tucked in the crook of his arm against his chest, where he lay with his head on the table. He didn't even seem to have tried to get comfortable. No, he'd simply gone until the room had spun enough that he'd put his head down, only for a minute, just a minute, until the room settled, honest. That was all it took for him to pass clean out.]