Chapter Text
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. – Hebrews 13:2
There are many ways an angel can descend from the higher realms of Heaven to that middle land most commonly known as Earth. Graceful flight tends to be the preferred method. Pillars of light and mysterious glowing ladders are reserved for more serious occasions. At this point, Wolfwood thinks he’s done it all, and then some.
This is the first time, however, that he’s been thrown to Earth like a lightning bolt. Flailing through the ether, he has just enough time to fold his wings around himself before he crashes through dense tree cover, breaking branches and taking down trees. He hits the ground with an almighty crash that shakes the earth and sends birds into panicked flights.
So much for an inconspicuous entrance.
Wolfwood cocoons himself in his wings, black as night and speckled with white and gray like stars, and sulks like a misbehaving fledgling. All the good work he’s done for Heaven, the millennia of following orders and never setting a foot out of line, and this is his reward? Not that he expects anything less from those many-headed morons who call the shots.
What time he doesn’t spend brooding and licking his wounds, he spends folding his multidimensional bulk into the more palatable shape of a human body. Though it’s been longer than he cares to admit since he’s taken this form, it comes to him with ease. When the last piece is set, when he has two arms, two legs, and a single head, he puts away his wings.
The pain, muted in his angelic form, sears through his newly formed nerve endings and nearly bowls him over. Instead, he uses it to stoke his rage and plants his two feet on the ground.
He takes in his surroundings, the dense forest of pine and spruce and cedar, the sunlight beaming through the many gaps in the green leaves and the broken and fallen trees Wolfwood’s impromptu descent has left.
Then Wolfwood tilts his head up, squints against the blinding sun, and tests out how his throat is working.
“Stupid goddamn fuckers!” he shouts, hoarsely. He clears his throat and tries again. “Useless chucklefucks!” That’s better; he’s at full volume now. It’s not quite the boom of his angelic voice but it’ll do. “Have you ever heard of a controlled landing? It’s a great thing, ya know. Much nicer than crashing face first into a fucking forest!”
Any birds that weren’t smart enough to flee earlier startle into the air as Wolfwood yells. He stretches his awareness as far as it’ll go and gives out another scream of frustration.
“Really? You’ve gotta be kidding me! You couldn’t dump me somewhere useful? Like, oh, I don’t know, near civilization!” He kicks the nearest felled tree trunk and instantly regrets it. How could he have forgotten the woes of a stubbed toe? At least he had the sense to create shoes for himself this time. “How am I supposed to find a kid to protect if I’m in the middle of goddamn nowhere !”
He proceeds to tell them where they can shove their flaming swords and suggests some places they could also put their heads while they’re at it, which would be impossible for both the human and angel anatomy. Wolfwood then insults their dignity, their honor, and their nonexistent mothers before he finally runs out of steam and remembers that he needs to breathe.
Right, lungs. He has a pair of those now. Should probably let them do their job.
Wolfwood bends over, hands on his knees, panting and shaking with fury and the sheer audacity of it all. They’d made the order sound so simple. It was barely even an order to begin with.
For his dedication to Heaven and many years of faithful service as a guardian angel, they were allowing him something special. A move up from the rank of Virtue to Dominion and, more coveted than even that, the right to choose who his next charge would be. He should have been thrilled. He should’ve been downright delighted. The last time Wolfwood had any sort of choice, he was a mere fledgling. Even then, he had only two options: become a warrior to protect Heaven or a guardian to protect humanity. And naive as only an idealistic fledgling could be, one that still had faith in Heaven and humanity, he chose to become a guardian.
An uncountable amount of time had passed since then. Wolfwood is a very different angel from the fledgling that so proudly declared his intentions before the host of Heaven. If he’d really been given a choice, he never would’ve come down to Earth again.
But here he is, small and compressed into a human guise, his celestial form nothing more than a suggestion around him as a gentle wind brushes against his skin and ruffles his feathers. The sun’s heat beats down on him and sweat gathers at the collar of his shirt. He can block it out if he wants, but he doesn’t. Despite it all, he still believes that if he’s to serve humanity, he should know what it feels like to live as one.
Now if only he could find some humans to serve, that’d be great.
Wolfwood fills his lungs, feeling the single breath travel through his whole body before he lets it out along with all the emotions roiling in him. Whatever his feelings are, he has a mission. Find a child, protect them, serve them, let them grow. Simple enough for a guardian angel like him.
He picks a direction and starts walking.
The downside to human bodies is that they get tired, even when you’re really an angel shoved into human form. Wolfwood is hot, his feet hurt, and his tongue is so dry you could probably make jerky out of it. He long ago lost track of how much time he’s spent trekking through the woods and getting absolutely nowhere.
He hasn’t even hit a hiking trail, and the only living beings he’s encountered so far are deer and mosquitoes. So many mosquitoes, because fuck him, of course. On top of the way he aches, he’s unbearably itchy. Otherwise, his only company is the constant hum of cicadas chittering in the undergrowth.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, it turns out he’s in the mountains too. He’s spent more time scrambling up and down hills and extricating himself from ravines he’s accidentally wandered into than he cares to admit. If he hadn’t been thrown down so violently and forced to spend his energy on not turning into celestial pulp, he would’ve risked flying up for a better vantage point. At the moment, his wings are functioning as the world’s fanciest sun visor.
Wolfwood wishes he could’ve stayed in Heaven. His latest cohort was making good progress, and he’d gotten to spend more time with Livio, the first angel he’d ever guided through their training. Leaving so abruptly, without even a chance to say goodbye, rankles him.
It doesn’t make any sense. He’s done everything the higher orders asked, even when he disagreed, even when it made things worse or was just plain wrong. He’s made his displeasure known but not once has he disobeyed. The only concession he’s ever asked for was a break after his last assignment, and no one had any complaints about his training of the younger guardians. Why toss him out with hardly a word, like they couldn’t stand the sight of him?
But if Wolfwood has learned anything during his service, it’s that it’s futile to question the will of Heaven. “God works in mysterious ways,” they say. Their decisions are shrouded in meaningless bullshit like that. The only way to gain any sort of insight is to keep pushing forward until you’re as powerful as them and can see behind the curtain. Otherwise, you’d better accept your lowly place on the ladder and do as you're told or risk falling. Which aren’t really good options, not that anyone has ever asked Wolfwood.
He comes to a stop and leans back against a tree, gasping for breath. Every breath tears at his parched throat, his knees trembling from exertion. If he stays here a minute longer, he might keel over. With a groan, Wolfwood sets aside all thoughts of Heaven and its useless systems and pushes forward into the woods again.
There are downsides to living as a human and this is one of them. He experiences pain and exhaustion and thirst the same way any of his charges would. At any other time he’d be able to miracle himself better, but he doesn't even have the energy to fully manifest his wings right now, let alone perform a miracle. Once again, he curses the higher orders of Heaven. Silently this time to save air.
One foot in front of the other, he tells himself. He has survived forced marches beside his charges, war and plague and famine. He has bled starlight beside his brethren as they fought to keep the demon hordes from invading their domain. He will not be overtaken by a little jaunt through the woods. But the heat doesn’t relent and the slope grows steeper and with every aching step, Wolfwood is reminded that right now, he is painfully, hopelessly human and he can’t push himself forever.
The world wavers around him, bleeding together in a mess of brown and green. His legs threaten to give out under him. A sudden blessed breeze rustles the leaves and cools the sweat at his brow. He sways with it. Would it really be so bad, to lay down on the soft earth and let the wind blow over him? He could rest, for a little while at least, just until his power returns to him.
Up until now, the forest has smelled of loam and summer flowers, natural things, but there’s something else in the air. This is new. This is human.
The scent of smoke fills his nostrils. It isn’t the woodsy smoke of a campfire or the harsh bite of exhaust. It’s much simpler than that: the light soft scent of cigarette smoke. Wolfwood finds it paradoxically comforting.
Stumbling through overgrown bushes and scratching himself on low-hanging branches, he follows it. With the way his head is spinning, he can barely see where he’s going, but that doesn’t matter. If there’s cigarette smoke, that means there’s people. And where there’s people, there’s civilization or a way to get to it.
The edges of Wolfwood’s vision are going black and his body aches for rest, but he can’t stop just yet. He pushes onward until, finally, the trees begin to thin. Birdsong and cicada chatter are joined by the intermittent whoosh of a passing car.
He breaks out of the forest and into a clearing. No, not a clearing, a backyard. A small blue house sits surrounded by a wild profusion of flower beds. The flowers are in full bloom, bending gently with the breeze.
A tall man leans against the railing of the deck, a cigarette dangling between two fingers, the sun haloing his golden hair. He goes to take another drag but freezes when he sees Wolfwood. Though his vision is going dark at the edges, Wolfwood can’t look away from him.
From this far away, his soul is nothing more than a faint aura. For all that, it radiates an unbearable gentleness. After the harshness and disappointment of his day, it soothes the angry creature making its home in Wolfwood’s human heart.
Perhaps this one won’t be so bad as the other humans he’s encountered. Maybe he can finally stop, if only for a second.
Hopefully, he thinks before he faints face first into the azaleas.
Sleep is a foreign concept to angels. Either you are or you aren’t. There’s no in between, no floating space that humans would call dreaming. If you aren’t awake, you’re dead.
Suffice to say, Wolfwood finds it rather disorienting when consciousness returns to him. There’s a moment where he forgets that he’s an angel with a mission. His only thought is that the bed beneath him is soft and the blanket he’s wrapped in is warm and it would be nice to bask in this kind of comfort forever.
Then he cracks his eyes open and is nearly blinded. The brilliance of the soul sitting beside him is as bright as a thousand suns. It’s warmth, kindness, strength, and oddly enough, deep, untended sorrow.
Cautiously, Wolfwood squints past the glow, relegating the soulstuff to the back of his perception and focusing on the man it belongs to. It’s the same one he saw outside before he passed out. Up close, his eyes are a clear blue, and his lips pursed in concentration. There’s a half-finished sweater in his lap, a hook effortlessly flying through it, clicking against the metal of his left hand with every moment. Stitch by careful stitch, he weaves yarn and soul together, putting a little more of himself into it.
Humans have a tendency to leave pieces of their soul behind in the things they make, but it’s never felt quite like this. The blanket draped over Wolfwood radiates love and care, glowing faintly with threads of soul, like it’s just as alive as its maker. Unconsciously, he extends his wings, still hidden in the ether, trying to touch the feelings swirling around him.
He doesn’t understand this. How can one human hold this much inside of them and not explode?
“Oh, you’re awake!” the man exclaims.
Wolfwood startles and, quite against his will, his wings puff out, scattering feathers. He tries to cover it by bolting upright, batting away glossy black feathers in halfway feigned panic. Not that the other man notices anything.
He’s abandoned his project to shove a glass of water in Wolfwood’s hands and insist he drink it. Since his throat is still painfully dry, he sits up and takes it, sipping it carefully under the man’s watchful gaze. Meanwhile, Wolfwood observes the room he’s ended up in, from the neatly organized shelves of yarn to the half-finished plushies lined up on the desk in the opposite corner. It’s the plushies that really catch his eye. They radiate the same brightness as the man and his sweater, promising comfort and care to whoever picks them up.
“You’re real lucky I was out there today,” the man chatters. “I’m usually selling at the farmer’s market on the weekend but a friend needed my table today so I wouldn’t have had anywhere to set up. Ah, but you don’t care about that! I’m Vash, by the way. Vash Saverem.”
Wolfwood blinks at him. Between the uncanny brightness in the room (part of him even wants to argue impossible) and the little monologue, he’s not sure what to make of Vash. “Uh, hi.”
“Hi! And you are…?”
“Wolfwood.”
“No first name?” Vash says. It’s curious rather than accusatory the way Wolfwood expects it to be.
“Nicholas. But just—call me Wolfwood.” He forgets that his given name sounds more like a surname. When he does have to come up with a first name to appease a human’s expectations, he gives people the name of his favorite saint. Well, it’s also the name he lets kids use for him. Some of the little ones can’t pronounce Wolfwood to save their lives.
“It’s nice to meet you, Wolfwood,” Vash says, smiling at him like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I hope you’re feeling better. You scared me earlier. And crushed my azaleas a bit.”
From what Wolfwood knows of humans—which is quite a lot at this point—they don’t take too kindly to strangers passing out in their back gardens. And they don’t tend to carry them inside and make them comfortable inside their own home, surrounded by creations they hold so dear that they imbue part of their soul into them, then ask after their health. Is this guy completely crazy?
“Sorry about that,” Wolfwood mutters. He’s definitely staring, but he can’t help it. Vash’s soul demands attention, and he’s also completely unbelievable. There’s a mole under his left eye that crinkles a bit when he smiles. His eyelashes are so blond they’re almost invisible, fluttering like a butterfly’s wings every time he blinks.
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll survive.” He picks up his hook, and without looking down, starts crocheting again. “I’m just glad you’re okay. What were you doing out there all on your own?”
Isn’t that the question? If Vash wasn’t suspicious of him before, he’s going to be soon. There isn’t exactly a rule against angels lying—they’re nothing like the fae—but Wolfwood has never been any good at it. He can’t tell Vash he was sent to Earth on a mission from Heaven and was dumped in the woods for some unholy reason, not unless he wants to look like a complete lunatic.
At Wolfwood’s silence, Vash continues, “It’s pretty hot out to be taking a hike. Let me tell you, I honestly wasn’t too upset to miss the farmer’s market today.”
Vash is polite enough not to mention that Wolfwood isn’t dressed for hiking in the slightest, not in his button up and slacks. His inappropriate outfit, unfortunately, he can’t blame on Heaven.
“Well, I wasn’t—doing that exactly,” Wolfwood stammers. “I mean—um—I got—I got lost.”
“Hmm, that happens. Were you going anywhere in particular?”
“Not really.”
“Is there maybe someone you’d like to call?”
“No.”
“It’s alright. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want.” He tilts his head and quite suddenly, those calm eyes turn sad. “But—do you have somewhere to go home to?”
Unsure what to do with himself, Wolfwood fiddles with the empty glass, not looking at Vash. An angel’s home is supposed to be in Heaven, a place of light and beauty. In some ways, it’s better than Earth. He knows what to expect of the other angels, but at best, Heaven’s promises of glory and peace are empty. It’s hard to call it home.
Wolfwood swallows past the lump in his throat and shakes his head. For a time, the only sound in the room is the click of Vash’s hook against his metal hand. The air conditioner kicks on, its hum filling the rest of the space. It’s strange though. It’s not as hot as it was outside, but it’s still warm, yet Vash is wearing a turtleneck and pants, not an inch of skin showing.
“Well, I’m not using this room for much of anything anyway,” Vash says, as if he’s talking to himself. Then he turns the full force of his smile on Wolfwood, freezing him in place. “If you don’t mind keeping my unfinished plushies company, it’s all yours.”
In this form, Wolfwood has two small wings behind his head and three sets at his back. Vash’s offer causes every single wing to flare, flapping wildly and stirring up a breeze in the small room. It stirs Vash’s hair, lifting the longer pieces in the front. He wrinkles his nose at the sensation and glances at the vents.
“I really should get that looked at. This would be a bad time for the air to crap out on me.”
It’s official. Vash Saverem is, without a doubt, the least sane human Wolfwood has ever encountered. They hardly know each other. All Wolfwood did was pass out in front of Vash and now he’s offering him a place to stay? What if Wolfwood was a thief, a con artist, a murderer? Does this man have no sense of self-preservation?
Wolfwood finally finds his voice and stutters, “I couldn’t…I’d be taking advantage. If you could just get me to town, I’ll find a place to go.”
“I can help you do that if you want, but it’s getting late. At least stay the night.”
“I don’t—I don’t have any way to pay you.”
Vash shakes his head. “I don’t want money.”
“You must want something!” Wolfwood bursts out.
That gets Vash to look at him again. He sets down his hook and pierces Wolfwood with the full weight of his gaze. There are few things in the world that have ever cowed Wolfwood. Once you’ve experienced the might of the Host, the glory of divine revelation, little else matches up. But right now, as Vash’s soul brightens into a golden shimmer, resisting all of Wolfwood’s efforts to ignore it, he realizes he’s found another while half-exhausted in a random human’s spare room.
Beneath all that care and gentleness is a steel core, forged of faith and conviction so strong it rivals that of the most devout saints. And beneath it, there’s sorrow, with roots so deep they have no end.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t,” Vash says, his tone careful and even. “I don’t think there’s enough kindness in this world, so I like to offer it whenever I can. And you look like someone that could use it.” Wolfwood opens his mouth to argue but Vash neatly cuts him off. “Helping you isn’t a burden to me. I have more space here than I know what to do with and enough money to support myself and someone else. If you really want an explanation for my actions, how about this? I live alone in a house in the middle of nowhere. Some company would be nice.” This time, when Vash smiles, Wolfwood is tempted to slap his wings over his eyes. “So, Wolfwood, would you be up for that?”
In the face of that sweet, sincere smile, the only thing Wolfwood can say is, “Sure.”
Vash Saverem is truly one of a kind.
He pulls Wolfwood into his life as if he’s always belonged there. He gives him the spare room, takes him to buy new clothes, gently teases Wolfwood about all the black sweaters and white button ups he buys, and treats him much the way you would a beloved friend you haven’t seen in a long time.
More often than not, Wolfwood has no idea how to react to it. His facial expressions he knows how to camouflage and his wings stay hidden under a glamour. But even a glamour can’t disguise all the nervous puffing, flapping, and shedding he’s doing. Vash is starting to think there are crows roosting somewhere by his house.
His job doesn’t usually give him much opportunity to interact with adult humans, not unless he’s threatening them or trying to get something from them. He’s far more used to being the observer than part of the conversation. Vash thankfully lets him be, and Wolfwood stays quiet while Vash chats with every person they bump into when they go to town for supplies or groceries. Instead, he watches how a soul like Vash’s cuts a sunny path through the world.
Though he’s always thought himself adaptable, with Vash, it’s disorienting. Each time he thinks he knows how something is going to go, for the same pattern he’s seen repeat as it has a million times over, Vash finds a way around it. He defuses arguments with a laugh and smooths over misunderstandings with unparalleled patience.
Everyone in Jeneora knows him. He’s probably helped everyone out at least once, whether it was by offering a ride or helping them move or giving them a shoulder to cry on. No one is the least bit surprised by Wolfwood’s presence or the fact that he’s staying with Vash until he “gets on his feet,” so to speak. Helping out perfect strangers is just something Vash Saverem does.
He makes a living as a fiber craft artist, knitting, crocheting, and felting everything from hats and sweaters and mittens to the cutesy plush animals that are Wolfwood’s nighttime companions. During the day, Wolfwood can easily find Vash wherever he is in the house by the soft clicking his hook and needles make when they knock against his prosthetic.
Technology has really made some strides since the last time Wolfwood was Earthside. Vash’s left arm is a marvel of bioengineering, moving as smoothly and surely as if he was born with it, the fingers capable of the fine movements needed to loop and thread yarn into new creations. And Vash himself is a skilled master of his art, even without the arm. A few times, Wolfwood has caught him working without his prosthetic, his crochet hook fixed on a stand while he uses his right hand to pull yarn through the loops.
All in all, it seems like a good life, remarkable only for the sheer optimism and kindness Vash embodies. There’s no reason for Wolfwood to still be here, watching him so carefully for a sign that things aren’t truly so easy, that Vash is somehow untouched by the hardness of the world.
He hates that he’s proven right. A little over two weeks after becoming Vash’s impromptu guest, Wolfwood is searching the house for his host. Vash said they’d be going to town soon to deliver some of his goods to a store run by his friends, but “soon” passed 20 minutes ago. He isn’t in his craft room or in the backyard or sneaking donuts in the kitchen. Most annoyingly, there’s no tell-tale clicking for Wolfwood to follow to its source. He might be thousands of years old, and he may have once watched a river cut its way through a canyon, but that doesn’t make him patient.
The only place he hasn’t checked is Vash’s bedroom. Through some unspoken agreement, that space has been labeled sacrosanct, Vash’s refuge in a house where he’s otherwise given Wolfwood free reign. (Which is, Wolfwood can’t stress this enough, an absolutely insane thing to allow for a stranger you met two weeks ago). Right now, Wolfwood couldn’t care less if it was the Great Seraph’s Garden of Contemplation.
Without knocking, he throws the door open. “Spikey, I swear, if you make us late to meet your own friends—” Wolfwood freezes mid-sentence.
Vash’s room is just as cozy as the rest of the house, and it glows even more strongly with markers of his soul. The chunky blue-green coverlet on his bed that matches his eyes and the rainbow of sweaters in his closet create an atmosphere of peace and happiness. It’s a direct contrast to Vash himself. His soul is as strong as ever, brilliantly golden as usual, but for the first time, all Wolfwood can pay attention to is his physical body.
Vash is shirtless, a turtleneck hanging limply from his hands, his arms half-stuffed in the sleeves. There’s so much bare skin on display, more of Vash than Wolfwood has ever seen. And he’s covered in scars. The two precise even lines curving under his pecs aren’t a surprise; Vash was very open about his gender from the beginning. It’s the mess of his left side that causes all the words to flee Wolfwood’s mouth and his wings to slap over his eyes.
The worst of it is by the place where his prosthetic joins the rest of Vash’s arm. They’re thick and gnarled and gone white with age. More stretch across his chest and down his side but Wolfwood can’t see them anymore behind the shivering of his own feathers.
He really fucked up this time. There’s a reason Vash dresses the way he does and keeps his body to himself. There’s a reason Vash’s room is off limits. And there’s a reason he’s missing an arm. Wolfwood should’ve known this. He’s seen it a thousand times before, with his own children and with adults he’s encountered. It’s never become easier to bear.
Someone like Vash shouldn’t have that kind of pain written across his skin. It’s not right. It’s just not fair. Against his will and better judgment, Wolfwood hopes there was someone watching over him. No one should suffer that alone.
Vash squeaks, and there’s a slap as he presumably uses his arms to cover his chest.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll just—“ Wolfwood tries to back out of the room but, with his eyes obscured, knocks into the door frame instead. It dislodges the wings covering his eyes and once again, Wolfwood is faced with Vash. Not just the ridges of his scars, but the corded muscles of his arms and the fairness of his skin. Things not befitting for an angel to notice. He swallows it back and stares at his feet.
Despite the way Vash feigns embarrassment, there isn’t the slightest blush to his cheeks. He stands confidently, the only hint to his true feelings the tight smile on his face. Wolfwood has gotten very good at reading past those looks of his. Mostly, that they’re fake as all hell.
“Well, this is awkward,” Vash says with a laugh. He quickly pulls his shirt on and when Wolfwood doesn’t respond, he sighs. “I know. It’s not very attractive, is it?”
Wolfwood speaks before he can think. “That’s not true.”
The strained smile drops off Vash’s face. As much as Wolfwood tries not read his soul too closely, it’s hard to miss the way its glow brightens, the faint hints of surprise within it. Has no one ever told him that?
“Sorry! You’re right. We should get going. Meryl and Milly are waiting for us!”
He sweeps past Wolfwood, chattering about his friends and how long they’ve had the store, and doesn’t even notice the way Wolfwood brushes a wing against him, trying to make him feel just a little bit better.
The ride into Jeneora is silent. The roar of the old pickup’s engine takes up the space that would usually be occupied by Vash’s never-ending commentary and Wolfwood’s attempts at conversation. It’s the first break in Vash’s facade, the most uncomfortable silence has been between them, and Wolfwood is considering if there might be a way to miracle things better.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the power to turn back time.
Wolfwood didn’t have to stay after that first night. He could’ve left. Flown away on his own or let Vash drop him off in town. It’s not like he really needs help but Vash made things easy, gave him a safe place to land and gather his thoughts. He told himself he needed some time before he could start his mission, to settle in and remind himself how to act human.
He didn’t need this man’s company, and he thought Vash didn’t need his either. But as Wolfwood watches Vash expertly navigate the twists and turns of the mountain roads, he thinks he might be wrong.
There are times when Vash smiles or laughs that the light doesn’t reach his eyes. Days have gone by where this was the only way he could interact with the world, his soul dim and twisting in on itself. Sometimes, there’s so much pain written into those looks and the stiff way he holds himself.
Wolfwood tries not to look. He tries not to worry. It’s not his job. But now he wonders. Are his muscles screaming at him? Are his scars aching? How far does Vash push himself to help everyone—friend or stranger—who stumbles across his path? Has Wolfwood been making it worse?
That idiot would never say if it was, even if Wolfwood asked point blank. It dawns on him that Vash doesn’t think anyone cares about him outside what he can do for them. Maybe that’s why he keeps his distance from everyone outside of his work and his charitable good deeds. Maybe that’s why, even after two weeks of being here, Wolfwood is only now meeting people that Vash calls friends.
Wolfwood just barely manages to keep his wings from arching out in a display of fury. Humans are unaware of their own souls. Some talented few are able to perceive others but their own will always be a mystery. Still, how can Vash not realize how bright he is, how rare and beautiful that is? Against the callousness of the world, Vash is a beacon. Perhaps, he’s more of an angel than Wolfwood is.
A strong wind gusts through the cab, a feather or two flying loose. Vash pushes his hair out his face and looks around curiously, but doesn’t notice Wolfwood’s trembling as he attempts to keep his wings in check.
He hates being right. He's too old to truly believe that it's possible for a human to survive this life unscathed, but this? It’s something else. This is beyond simple pain, and it makes Wolfwood wonder ever more about that sadness lurking in Vash's expression.
How does Vash live like this, so isolated and alone and in so much anguish? How does he keep up that boundless positivity of his with all that hurt inside him? Wolfwood’s not sure he’ll ever understand, but he’s sure of one thing. Now that he knows, he can’t leave.
Someone has to make sure Vash doesn’t do something completely stupid.
The Bernadelli Art Factory is tucked away on a small side street, its window overflowing with the best works from the independent artists of Jeneora and its environs. Vash’s creations are front and center as soon as you walk in, expertly arranged on a table, his animal plushies competing for space with his eccentrically patterned shirts and hats.
Despite the name of the store, Meryl Stryfe and Milly Thompson are the two proprietors, and they also happen to be Vash’s best friends. For once, Wolfwood thinks that word actually applies to them. So many times when Vash has taken him to town and introduced him to someone they bumped into on the street as a friend, it was an over exaggeration at best. Those people didn’t know Vash and didn’t interact with him as anything more than an acquaintance you occasionally shared space with when you went to get lunch.
While Wolfwood brings in box after box of Vash’s wares, he catches snippets of their conversation. Milly asks after his garden and if he’s managed to figure out what’s wrong with his roses. Meryl, who is somehow shorter than everyone surrounding her by a whole head but remains the loudest of all of them, alternates between scolding him for not visiting more often and arguing with Vash about the placement of his goods. Because Vash believes he doesn’t deserve the honor of the front and center display.
It’s not fair, Vash insists. But whatever argument he comes up with, Meryl expertly breaks it down. His stuff isn’t that good (“Don’t insult your skills!”), it’s not fair for newer artists (“We literally have a specific display for that.”), it’s pure nepotism (“That’s not what nepotism is.”). Meryl doesn’t bat an eye at anything Vash comes up with and Wolfwood gets the impression that this is a well-trod argument between them, one neither of them are willing to back down from.
From the impassioned way Meryl argues, the way her soul swirls with righteous anger every time Vash puts himself down, it’s easy to see how much she cares for him. Milly is much the same. Her approach is gentler, more complimentary, but with the firm intent that Vash gets what he deserves. She doesn’t waste time arguing with him and simply starts unloading the boxes, filling in the many empty spaces from successful sales on his table with his newest creations.
When Vash sees that, he sighs in defeat. “Fine, one more month! But you’ll give that spot to somebody else when all the tourists are here for leaf peeping season.”
“Sure, Vash!” Milly says, her eyes sparkling. Wolfwood tries not to read people’s souls too deeply. It’s rude to eavesdrop on people’s thoughts. But he’s gratified to see that Milly has no intention of following through with that promise.
The way the girls speak with him and treat him is a marked difference from everyone else. They actually ask after him and how he’s doing, ask if he’s taking care of himself and if he’s been working himself too hard. At one point, Milly enlists Wolfwood’s help in rearranging Vash’s table, conveniently taking him out of earshot of Meryl and Vash. Though there’s not really such a thing as out of earshot when you’re an angel.
Meryl turns on Vash and levels an unimpressed look at him. “I can’t believe I had to find out that you’re housing some random guy from Roberto!”
“Aw, c’mon, Meryl, it’s no big deal.”
“No big deal? You don’t know who the hell he is! He could kill you in your sleep or rob you blind.”
Well, at least somebody Vash knows has a sense of self-preservation.
“Don’t you think he would’ve done that by now?” Vash crosses his arms over his chest, though whether it’s protective or defensive, Wolfwood can’t tell. “He’s just someone who needs a bit of help.”
Meryl sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I know. I know. Make the world a better place one good deed at a time. But, Vash? All I’m saying is you’re taking a pretty big risk. I don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
“I won’t,” Vash says. “Wolfwood’s a good guy. I can see it in his eyes.”
Like Vash senses Wolfwood’s attention on him, he turns to him, those blue eyes easily meeting Wolfwood’s, and he smiles. It’s not one of his fake ones. It’s the small, gentle one, genuine and rare and surely something Wolfwood doesn’t deserve.
His wings shudder gently, his feather puffing out and testing the limits of his camouflaging abilities. Milly squints at him for a moment, but Wolfwood barely notices. He hasn’t thought of himself as anything but a tool for a larger goal in a long time. He’s not bad, he’s not good, he’s simply another cog in the great machine of the universe. Vash doesn’t know that, he can’t know that, but when he’s holding Vash’s work in his hands, a physical manifestation of his love and care, Wolfwood can almost believe in something better. In a world where he truly is a good angel.
There are still boxes in the flatbed when they get back into the truck, though Vash hasn’t mentioned any other stores they need to go to. All Wolfwood needs to do is level a questioning gaze at Vash for the other man to awkwardly rub the back of his neck.
“Ah, I forgot to mention—there’s actually one last place I’d like to stop by. I’ll probably be there awhile, so I can take you back if you want—”
“It’s fine,” Wolfwood says. “Where are we going?”
Vash is positively sparkling with glee as he starts the engine and pulls back onto the road. “It’s a surprise! Don’t worry, you’ll love it.”
They drive out of the bustle of downtown and through quiet residential streets until they come to a large building that seems to stand on the edge of everything. Its edges are worn down by the elements, red brick dusty and weathered. A chain link fence stretches across a field from which children’s voices distantly call. As Vash parks the car, Wolfwood finally notices the sign above the front doors.
Hopeland Orphanage.
A ball of tightness squeezes Wolfwood’s lungs. He should’ve known he couldn’t avoid his job forever. He found excuse after excuse after excuse to not search for a new charge. Whenever they went into town before, he ignored any child that crossed their path, didn’t read their souls, see their hurts and their lives and their dreams written out like so much spun sugar in the air. He didn’t have to imagine all the ways the world would fail them and beat them down, all the ways Wolfwood wouldn’t be able to protect them.
Vash hops out of the car as if nothing’s wrong and Wolfwood follows, barely noticing the box Vash places in his arms.
“What are we doing here?” Wolfwood says as they stand on the front step.
“I volunteer here in my free time.” Vash lifts the flap on one of the boxes and pulls out a green hat that looks like a frog, its eyes forming what would be the ears on another animal, its mouth stretched wide in a smile. “And I donate stuff. It gets cold here in the winter and it’s expensive to dress so many kids, so I give them the prototypes of my patterns.”
Wolfwood unfolds the lid of his own box and takes in the neatly folded sweaters and scarves, the proliferation of mittens in different colors and sizes tied together with their matching hats.
“You don’t have this many prototypes.” He’d watched Vash make some of these, and he hadn’t hesitated once as he crocheted them. When he worked on a new pattern, the click of his hook would go silent for minutes at a time and he’d constantly undo rows he wasn’t satisfied with. This was the pile he was working on last night until his fingers stiffened and his left arm ached and he switched to using his stand. Wolfwood had miracled the worst of the pain away when he bumped into him during dinner so Vash would actually get some sleep.
“Well, sometimes,” he admits sheepishly. “The kids just really like my hats.”
Of course they do. And of course Vash would work himself to the bone for orphans, shining beacon of goodness that he is.
When the door finally swings open, they’re immediately overtaken by a gaggle of small children shouting, “Mr. Vash!” They’re unceremoniously dragged inside, Wolfwood caught in the flow of everything. While Vash hands over the boxes to one of the caretakers and fends off excited children, a few of the braver ones approach Wolfwood.
“Are you Mr. Vash’s friend?” a little boy asks. He’s holding on to a bright blue bear that, despite its fraying threads, still bears the distinctive glimmer of Vash’s soul.
Wolfwood crouches down so he’s level with them, smiling gently. “That I am.”
“Mr. Vash is really nice. He made this for me.” The boy waves the bear around. “To scare away the monsters under my bed.”
“That sounds a lot like him.”
“What’s your name?” a girl no older than four breaks in.
“Wolfwood.”
“...Woofwood?”
“Ah, close. You know what? Since you’re also friends with Mr. Vash, why don’t you call me Nico? That’s my first name.”
Her face lights up to be given such a privilege. “Okay, Nico!”
The kids take turns asking him questions. Where’s he from? How did he meet Vash? Does he also make things? Why does he have wings?
There’s only so much magic that can disguise his wings. Children are still young enough, still open enough, to easily see through it. It doesn’t seem strange to them that a man might have wings, not wrong or holy or any other judgment an adult might put on them. It’s just part of Wolfwood. A cool part, if you ask some of them.
Wolfwood relaxes the more time he spends with them. He finds himself making jokes and smiling and agreeing to play games with them. Somehow, he ends up outside, in the field penned in by a fence, with children climbing all over him or chasing him in circles around the playground.
Maybe, for a moment, he can admit that he missed this. The easy joy, the wonderment, the curiosity, the acceptance. Even when they argue and fight and Wolfwood intervenes, all it takes is an I’m sorry , a promise to do better, and the world moves on again. It’s so easy and uncomplicated, so precious for the fact that one day an apology won’t be so simple.
But the moment passes as soon as he remembers where he is. The playground equipment is old and worn, rusting at the joints, the bright primary colors of the slide and the monkey bars faded from the elements. One of the screws securing the swings is loose and one fine day, it’ll give when a child sits on it, causing more grief in this place that’s already simmering with it. All it takes is a small miracle to fix it, but Wolfwood’s mood sours.
He doesn’t let the children see, his smile turning as fake as Vash’s. But all he can think as they run circles around him is how few of them will be adopted or find loving homes. How many countless orphans has he watched over that never found parents who cared about them again? They were tossed around from uncaring hand to uncaring hand until all the goodness was sucked out of them. He tried to keep the bitterness from taking them, but in the end, he was just as bad as all the other people who promised to protect them. One day, he left them, just like everyone else did.
Before he can get any further into his head, the ever-distracting light show that is Vash makes his appearance, sidling up next to Wolfwood. Wolfwood has at least three kids climbing all over him and two more ready to take their fellows’ places should they tire, but Vash pays them no mind as he saunters over, smiling mischievously.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks.
Oh, that smug asshole. He’d noticed. There had been a few times when they’d gone out that Wolfwood had inevitably attracted the attention of a child. It’s a guardian angel thing. Just like they can see his wings, they feel what he is better than adults and instinctively understand that he’s safe and can protect them. So he’d ended up helping a lost kid find their mom once. And talked a little girl through the upset of losing her puppy. And maybe he’d made dumb faces at a baby. So what? It’s his job.
“Yeah,” he grumbles while his wings puff petulantly. The kids all giggle at the sight.
“Good! I see you’ve pretty much been introduced to everyone.”
The kids chorus their agreement and Vash thanks them for being such good hosts and so welcoming to their new friend. Wolfwood is now somehow both blushing and flapping up a light breeze. Vash pays him no mind, looking around the playground until his eyes land on someone, growing heavy for a moment before he turns his attention back to Wolfwood.
“Ah, I think there’s someone else you should meet,” Vash says.
Wolfwood follows his gaze and finally notices a girl. She sits cross-legged on the field, right at the edge of the playground. A worn blue beanie is tugged low over her ears, but it’s not enough to cover her lack of eyebrows or the tiredness rimming her eyes. She’s skinny and small, no older than nine. Even from here, surrounded by a profusion of blazing young souls, he notices hers, thin and wavering. The way she longs to join in the fun, but can’t.
Wolfwood’s stomach sinks at the sight. She could be so bright. He knows it, in the ways he always knows a child’s truest self, but she’s too sick, too tired to do any of that. He doesn’t have the power to cure her illness or give her back the many things she’s no doubt lost, but he can let her play again, if only for a little while.
Vash convinces the kids to climb off Wolfwood, and they join the girl in her isolated corner. Her eyes light up the moment she notices Vash. She jumps up with excitement, swaying slightly from overexertion before Vash catches her in a big hug.
“Vash!” she exclaims in a thin voice.
“Hi, Tesla!” Vash says, giving her a big squeeze and lifting her off the ground. He sets her down and pretends to dust her off. “I have something for you.” From his back pocket, he pulls out the frog hat. “I thought this would be a little more fun than that old thing.”
She reverently takes the gift and examines its details, from the finely stitched eyes to the cheerful blush. “Oh my gosh, it’s so cute!”
“You wanna try it on now?”
In answer, she pulls off her beanie and yanks on the frog hat. It gives Wolfwood enough time to see her shaved head and confirm his suspicions. Then, she’s thanking Vash for it and giving him all kinds of frog facts that he patiently nods along to. Suddenly, she stops, noticing Wolfwood and the wings hanging across his back. He ruffles them in greeting and her eyes widen.
“Oh, right!” Vash says, and claps Wolfwood on the back, his hand passing through one of his wings. “This is my friend, Wolfwood. He’s new here, so be nice to him.”
Wolfwood holds his hand out with mock seriousness. “You can call me Nico.”
Playing along, still staring at him in wonderment, Tesla takes his hand. When she touches him, Wolfwood lets his power flow through into her. It eases the fatigue plaguing her whole body and her shoulders relax. With more energy in her voice, she says, “I’m Tesla!”
“It’s really nice to meet you. Do you want to come play with the rest of us?”
The other kids have gathered at the edge of the playground, eagerly waiting for Wolfwood to return to their games. Some of them have come to pester Vash, who takes to them with his usual over dramatic antics. Tesla observes this all cautiously, then looks down at herself as if wondering if she’ll fall apart if she lets herself join them. It must be rare for her to feel so unburdened.
When she meets Wolfwood’s eyes again, she’s smiling widely, revealing all the gaps in her teeth. “Alright!”
Vash’s eyes widen in surprise as Tesla rushes into the fray with all the exuberance of the nine-year-old she should be. “Wow, guess she’s having a good day.”
“Must be,” Wolfwood says. They don’t say much else, simply watching the children play together. There’s a hint of melancholy to Vash’s expression, like he’s missing something. For once, he doesn’t try to shut it away.
Eventually, Wolfwood gets pulled away into a game of tag and Vash sets up camp on the edge of the playground in one of the plastic chairs with a bag of yarn and another of his endless projects. Wolfwood makes sure everyone gets their turn with him, but always keeps an eye on Tesla to see if she’s flagging or needs a quick out. She seems content to take as much advantage of this sudden miracle as she can, and it’s all Wolfwood can do to not dance into the air at this small victory.
The whole time, Vash watches him from the corner of his eye, equal parts amused and satisfied. He’s been trying to get Wolfwood out of the house and engaged with the world for weeks. Right now, Wolfwood isn’t too annoyed with him for figuring out his weakness.
At one point, Tesla runs up to him, cheeks ruddy and blue eyes twinkling, grinning fiercely. She throws up her hands, mirroring the way Wolfwood is holding his wings. “Your wings are so big! How pretty!”
They’re still mostly folded up, parts of them hidden deeper in the ether to not disrupt his movement. Leaving them out too long can make him feel unwieldy. He’s not beneath letting them out to show off a little. He throws his arms up to match her and smiles just as wide.
“Oh? I can make ‘em bigger!”
He unfolds them with a wuff of air and for the first time in weeks, reveals them in their full glory. In the light, they shimmer a glossy black, the spots of gray dancing like sparkling comets. Tesla’s hands fly to her mouth in awe and she lets out a little giggle.
“Oh, wow! So cool, Nico!” she says.
For the first time since he crash landed, Wolfwood laughs, and maybe, for a moment, even feels holy.
Nearby, there’s a clatter of an object hitting wood. He tracks the noise to Vash, who’s got the look of a deer in headlights and whose hand is now devoid of a crochet hook. It’s on the ground, rolling lazily back and forth on the wooden border that separates the playground from the field.
With a final parting hug, Tesla runs off to rejoin her friends. Wolfwood doesn’t bother folding up his wings again as he approaches Vash. The other man’s eyes remain wide and disbelieving as Wolfwood crouches down to pick up the hook.
“You dropped it,” Wolfwood says, placing it gently in the cool metal of Vash’s left hand.
Vash regains his composure, blinking at him before closing his fist around the hook. “Oh—thank you, Wolfwood.”
Wolfwood smiles up at him and settles down on the grass at his feet. “It’s no trouble.”
Vash tilts his head, giving Wolfwood one last confused look, before his hook picks up speed and they fall into a comfortable silence. For a time, they simply watch the children at play and luxuriate in the late summer day. All days should be like today. Nothing to worry about, no hurts too big to heal, and all the children safe and sound as they chase each other across the playground. It’s times like this that he remembers why he chose to be a guardian angel. Because he can help make a world like this.
Vash nudges Wolfwood with his foot to get his attention, thoroughly dragging him out of the moment.
“Drop your hook again?” Wolfwood drawls, dropping his head back to look at him. His pout looks very funny when it’s upside down, his soft lips pursed, yet not so sour that he can’t be described as cute anymore. He huffs a laugh as he always does at Wolfwood’s teasing.
“No, there’s actually one more person I wanna introduce you to.” Vash waves at someone off to their side. Wolfwood doesn’t so much see the woman coming as hear the approaching wail of an unhappy baby and the exasperated hushing of the woman holding her.
She’s short and round, her hair tied back with a kerchief and the tired look in her eye of someone who’s been dealing with children all day. Wolfwood is intimately familiar with that feeling. Her soul, however, is steady, the kind of deep, dependable comfort emanating from her that children like the ones at Hopeland need. And that tiredness doesn’t stop her from examining Wolfwood with a critical eye.
He stands to meet her as she comes over, and Vash cheerfully continues his introductions. “Wolfwood, this is Ms. Melanie. She’s director of Hopeland Orphanage.”
“So, you’re Vash’s new friend,” Melanie says over the baby’s cries. In a softer voice, she whispers, “Hush, Maylene, hush.”
“That’s right. Vash was kind enough to give me a place to stay for a while,” Wolfwood says. He tries to keep his eyes on Melanie, but with a crying baby in his eyeline, it’s difficult. Maylene is six, maybe seven, months old and is not having any of it today. Her eyes are screwed shut and her face is bright red as she screams her head off. A baby’s soul is still unformed in some ways, so it’s difficult to read what’s got her so worked up. Wolfwood tries to tell himself it’s not his business and Melanie can obviously manage. His hands still itch to take her in his arms and wrap his wings around her until she feels safe and happy.
“I’m sorry about her. She’s been so fussy all day,” Melanie says, rocking her gently. It does nothing at all to calm her. “That does sound like Vash though. I owe him for keeping half the kids clothed through the winter.”
“Aw, Melanie, that’s not true—” Vash starts.
“I will not have you talking down about yourself here, young man.”
Wolfwood is gratified to see that there’s at least one more person Vash can’t argue against. He turns red up to his hairline and stammers, but can’t get a word out to the contrary. Melanie ignores Vash’s stumbling, keeping her focus directly on Wolfwood. “The kids here like him quite a lot. He’s our most popular volunteer. Though you’re not so bad with them yourself.”
It's Wolfwood’s turn to awkwardly stutter. She’s been watching, of course she has been. Melanie isn’t the kind of woman who’d let a stranger around her children unwatched and without proper vetting. Which just makes him wonder how much of this little trip Vash had planned.
He doesn’t have time to respond to her though. The sound of another crying child has all of them whipping their heads in the direction of the playground. Melanie sighs wearily.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” she says, and without preamble, hands a squirming Maylene to Vash and marches off.
Vash handles this with little grace, fumbling to hold her as she kicks and screams in indignation at being passed off to a stranger. He can’t figure out how to hold her, her head flopping over his forearm. Wolfwood has never seen him look quite so terrified. For a few minutes, he watches him struggle, juggling the baby with his project and gingerly holding her like she’s a ticking time bomb. It’s genuinely painful.
“Oh for—let me hold her,” Wolfwood sighs.
Vash doesn’t protest in the slightest when Wolfwood scoops her out of his arms. Holding her, it’s easier for him to feel what’s wrong. It’s nothing physical at least, just the overwhelming sensation of feeling small and alone in a big world. Wolfwood tucks her close to his chest, lets her listen to the otherworldly beat of his heart, and wraps his wings around the two of them. Slowly, her cries turn to hiccups, then little whimpers until she’s simply staring up at him curiously. He flaps the two wings at his head in greeting and she smiles at him, waving a small hand as she tries to catch them.
“Well, hi there, little one,” Wolfwood says. “That’s much better, huh?”
Once he’s sure she won’t start crying again, he pulls his wings back and is met with Vash and Melanie’s bewildered stares.
“Um, what?” Wolfwood says.
“She just…stopped crying. The minute you held her,” Vash says.
“And I haven’t been able to stop her all day,” Melanie says. Her eyes linger over his shoulder, where his wings still hang loose, invisible in the ether. He quickly tucks them closer to his back, even though it’s unlikely she can see them. It’s the rare adult who can see through an angel’s glamour, but he’d rather not have to answer any awkward questions.
“Ah, guess I just got lucky?” Wolfwood says.
It doesn’t look like Vash or Melanie believe him, but they drop the subject, their talk turning to the happenings at the orphanage, which children are set to be adopted, who’s doing well in school and who isn’t, and things of that nature. Wolfwood contents himself with listening, rocking Maylene whenever it seems like she’s about to work herself up again.
Eventually, Vash decides to pack up and go home. As he’s assembling his kit, Wolfwood hands Maylene back to Melanie, thanking her for letting him spend the day here.
“It’s no trouble,” she says, bouncing a now smiley and giggly Maylene. “Like I said earlier, you’re very good with the kids. That’s a rare talent.”
“Thank you,” Wolfwood says.
“Would you be interested in being a caretaker here?”
Wolfwood’s wings flare so hard that the draft they create lifts the edge of Vash’s project and nearly sends it flying. He focuses on Vash pressing it down and cursing at the wind and not on Melanie and her absolutely insane offer.
“Oh well, that’s—I can’t—”
Melanie smiles indulgently. “And here I was thinking you were less bashful than Vash.”
Wolfwood gets his tongue and his shock under control enough to get words out. “That’s really nice of you, but you’ve just met me. I couldn’t!”
“Well, you come highly recommended.”
“By who?” Wolfwood sputters.
“Vash. And Maylene. No one else has been able to get her to stop crying,” Melanie jokes. Of course Vash was the one who set this up. That was likely the whole point of today’s trip. He’s been trying to find Wolfwood a job and a reason to get out of the house for ages. And nosy, helpful bastard that he is, he figured out the one thing Wolfwood would have a hard time saying no to. “But really, I do trust Vash’s judgment. From what I’ve seen of you, you’re honest and good with the kids. I haven’t met a lot of people like that lately.”
He looks down at his feet, shuffling under Melanie’s gaze. The thing is, he does like it here. For one thing, it’s better than sitting in Vash’s house and thinking of everything he’s screwed up and how he doesn’t know what he’s doing on Earth again. It’s like a paradise hidden away from the rest of the world. For all the implications of an orphanage, the children are happy and Wolfwood can help them stay that way. Maybe he’ll even find his charge here rather than randomly wandering the streets of Jeneora. And if not, at least he’ll still be able to do good.
“Alright,” Wolfwood sighs. And that’s how he finds himself as the newest caretaker of Hopeland Orphanage.