The Inn at December [CW; will contain desecration of a grave in tags]

[mercifullyheavy]

Waking up the morning after drinking enough alcohol to kill a Toma was rarely an enjoyable event, even for Wolfwood. So when the light from the suns blazing in through the window finally managed to rouse him, he groaned, turning his head to bury it in the mattress underneath him. He wanted to roll over and shove his head under the pillow, but moving was...weird. He felt too hot, uncomfortable, like the blankets were wrapped too tightly around his limbs.

There was a moment of confusion before the vague memories of what had happened the night before began creeping into his consciousness, and at first he felt...hollow. Empty. Guilty for the trouble he'd caused. But the more he lay on the bed, the more the memories creeped in, until the hazy memories of the two of them finding him in the bar downstairs and making their way back up to the room for a proper sleep finally sank in, and he breathed in a sharp breath that made him groan all over again.

"Mmmmr...Needle-Noggin? Blondie?" He reached out with the arm he wasn't laying on top of - and the way that one felt like it was probably asleep was not a pleasant thing - slapping around the bed in search of the man he remembered dozing off against, and eventually his hand slapped against what felt like...an ankle? He felt the fabric of tight, knitted fabric over warm skin, and for a moment it made him relax into the bed again. "Mmmr...hey."

He patted the limb in drowsy greeting before reaching out again. One Vash down, the other to go? But even as he patted around, he dimly wondered if the other one had even gotten into the same bed, or if he'd taken another. He turned his head, blinking at the room through barely-opened eyes, only to find it empty, and his hand came up empty no matter where he searched.

That was when he decided he needed to just grin and bear the headache that was throbbing behind his eyes, and he turned, shifting, lifting his head to look around for the other man in the same moment he realized the claustrophobic feeling was from wearing his suit to bed, and found himself staring blearily at a bed that only held himself and the fluffy-haired, soft-spoken Vash he'd been traveling with for the past few months propped up against the headboard, and not the Vash he'd left behind in December.

"Morn'n'." He rolled over, bewildered, shielding his face enough that the light didn't completely blast his retinas and seer an apple-sized hole in his brain, and realized dimly that they were the only two people in the room.

He was gone.

He suddenly felt as if a bucket of rocks had been dumped right into his stomach, his head dropping back heavily and the arm he'd been using to shield his eyes dropping across his face.

Of course he was gone.

He wasn't sure if he was too tired, too hungover, or some combination of the two. It was taking him too long to work up the ability to think about what that actually made him feel. He knew it would kick in eventually. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Comments

[mercifullyheavy]

The sudden tidiness of the room when he came back wasn't lost on him, and there was a moment of sad fondness when he realized what had been going on when he was out there. Yeah. That checked out. Even when it wasn't needed, Vash was always trying to find something to do just to be helpful.

But then he was pressing another one of those small kisses that he always offered up so freely to the top of his head, and Nick's eyes slid closed again, his lip trembling a little. As if he were some precious thing, worthy of the affection, and shown it so often that at times, he almost wanted to believe he deserved it. At the very least, he was willing to accept the fact, at least in his own mind, that he craved the affection itself, unused to receiving it as he still was.

Even the gentleness of his words, free of judgment and seemingly more just to help pull him out of that dark place in his head, was a sort of balm on his frayed nerves. Vash, either of them, could spend so much time being a petulent brat, or a sweet, soft-spoken eternal-child, playful and dumb and impulsive, but they both had a side to them that was sometimes so rare to see, when he could really believe their age. Stern, but not unkind, commanding but with a gentle sort of guidance that was disarming, and it made him want to sink into it and just let them be in charge.

It was something he'd never experienced before, except perhaps from Chapel, in the earliest of days before he had shown his true colors, and even the mental comparison was enough to make his skin crawl. The only thing he could think of was the way it felt when he'd been particularly small and Miss Melanie or one of the other caregivers at the orphanage had held him when he'd cried.

Which, considering his relationship and feelings towards either of the Vashes, wasn't something he felt like he could even begin to unpack properly. Was that weird? Did that make him weird? God, did it even matter at this point? If that was the weirdest thing about him, maybe he was doing good, and he knew it wasn't.

Either way, it was that same feeling that he had, now, and with as raw as his emotions were, it was comforting, to let Vash metaphorically guide him back out of the nightmare he was living in his own head at the moment. He didn't have to think, he didn't have to try and keep up appearances. He could just accept the gentle reassurances as he was coaxed away from the horrible day he'd forced them to have and into the sun, instead.

So he simply nodded, quiet as he turned and walked back outside and around the building, to the yard he remembered leaving Angelina when it had been himself in this place. And sure enough, there she was; toppled over, sure, but when he righted her, she seemed to be whole and undamaged. Maybe a few scuffs here and there, but he could buff those out. He went through the familiar motions of strapping the Punisher to the back, and whether he realized he was doing it or not, after a few minutes, he began cooing soft little words of reassurance to the bike as he dusted her off, as if she were a living thing. He knows he's not your proper owner, but he promises he'll take care of you. He'll get you cleaned up. It'll be alright, he won't even make you deal with Spikey trying to drive you, this time. He'd need to see if he could find another sidecar, but for now, Vash could ride pillion behind him.

Which was, in the end, how they ended up leaving after the engine revved to life with barely a whimper of protest for the weeks without use, bringing a genuine smile to his face as he held her steady until Vash could climb on behind him.

And then they were off, headed towards Octovern. Just like old times. Mostly. Sort of.