Title: Of Whiskey and Demonstrations

Author: Matriaya

Rating: T - for some sensuous moments, but nothing too bad.

Disclaimer: This author doesn't own Trigun, or the characters, or the world or anything remotely fun. If she did, she wouldn't be sitting on a crappy couch writing fanfiction, she'd be by a pool drinking martinis.

A/N: Written for the prompt: Vash and Wolfwood are drinking in a bar, Wolfwood kisses Vash and leaves.

They always went out and drank after a particularly big battle. Wolfwood would drink anyways – he hardly needed an excuse – but Vash hadn't picked up the habit until his counterpart dragged him into a worn down bar in one of the bodunk towns they had just saved one night and showed him the beauty of drowning out the pain of death with the sweet release of alcohol. That night was no exception. The fighting had dragged on through most of the afternoon as Vash tried idea after idea to try and take out the bad guys without blowing holes through their heads. In the end, it came down to ending a life, or watching as innocents were snuffed out. Wolfwood chose for him.

Vash stumbled through the swinging doors of the Iron Bucket, ignoring the rainstorm of glares that greeted his unfamiliar face. They'd escaped getting hurt, but Vash couldn't quite shake the gleam of pain that punctured his enemy's face in those defining moments when life slipped away. He'd seen it countless times, but each and every time was a new punch to the gut. Wolfwood practically shoved him towards a vacant bar stool, and helped himself to the one adjacent. His long fingers reached into his belt as he snatched out $$10, then slapped it against the rough wood of the bar.

"Whiskey. Two glasses. Leave the bottle."

The barman nodded, then slid the money off the bar, disappearing it into his sleeve. Vash didn't want to drink, to be honest. He hated the first few sips, the way it burned like hell down his throat and never quite settled in his stomach. On more than one occasion his portion of the alcohol had ended up staining the dirt outside, and Wolfwood would make some inane comment about how he shouldn't have wasted the money on him in the first place, but after every battle there would be a glass waiting for him. They both knew it.

Practiced but unsteady hands poured them both their first finger of whiskey, which they took, clinked together ceremoniously, and shot back. Yep, there it was, the burn. To Vash, it was disgusting every time. To Wolfwood, it was the first glorious step in a journey he'd come to rely on.

Two glasses. Three.

"… and they were just so HUGE!" Vash had reached his happy stage of drunkenness, and was leaning heavily against Wolfwood's shoulder. "Like melons! Like giant ripe watermelons and I could have just reached out and bit them."

Wolfwood snorted in amusement, and studied his friend on the sly. Those piercing green eyes, still hidden beneath drooping shades, were darting all over the place, nearly rolling back into his head as he threw back his head and laughed. His long fingers, covered by tattered black gloves, traced circles in the empty shot glass in front of him. The unconscious motion had been driving Wolfwood crazy for the past ten minutes. Those damn fingers drove him to distraction on a good day, and with the whisper of three whiskey shots in his brain they were downright unbearable.

"So I went up to her, and…" Vash snuck a glance at Wolfwood. Was he drunk enough to believe that he'd gotten lucky? No. His hand was as steady on his glass as the moment they'd entered the bar. Here he was half pissed, and the priest looked like he hadn't yet touched the bottle. How was that fair? He was scowling into his glass, Vash noticed. More so than usual. Vash smirked. He'd just have to change that.

"… and then she shot me down. As usual."

This brought the full force of Wolfwood's gaze to rest on his face. Vash gripped his glass even tighter. Nervously, he grabbed the bottle, poured himself another shot, and quickly slammed it down. He was hardly feeling the burn anymore . In fact, he couldn't taste the bitterness. The only thing that indicated to him he'd taken a fourth shot was the swimming warmth in his stomach, and the way all of his thoughts felt the need to tumble out of his mouth without a second glance.

"You always seem so cool," he started, without realizing what he was saying. Hell, he didn't care. When did the whiskey start looking so damn pretty under the gas lamp light? And how did Wolfwood's eyes get to be so god damn blue?

"You're so good at women. You must have kissed lots of them." He plowed right on through, poking the priest in the side.

"I have," Wolfwood commented without much emotion. It was a simple fact. The obvious awe on the other man's face was palpable.

"What's it like?" he asked, hitting up with a full on stare.

Wolfwood found the question somewhat unsettling. Women were something he had always enjoyed, and he took great pride in his ability to please and take pleasure. It wasn't ever something he had to think about. Women were attracted to him, and him to them, and what happened afterward just… happened. He hadn't started to worry about how to behave around someone he was attracted to until he met Vash.

"It's... nice." He grunted into his whiskey, and helped himself to another glass. They were halfway through the bottle, and still his brain wouldn't stop shrieking about the way Vash's arm was almost-so-close-yes! brushing against his leg.

"Nice?" Vash let out a giggle that came out more like a snort.

"Yeah," Wolfwood countered, and gripped his shot glass tighter. There was something about Vash when he was drunk, the way he smiled, like the weight of all the horrors he'd seen were suddenly lifted, and the sunlight that touched his mouth was real. It did funny things to Wolfwood's brain.

"But what kind of nice?" Vash plowed on, slumping against his friend for support. "Like donuts nice? Or a warm bath nice? Or oooooh, like whiskey nice? This is nice. Barkeep! Another bottle! Or three! Lets have three bottles! One for you and one for me!"

He couldn't take it anymore. Unconsciously done or not, if Vash's hand moved any further up his leg, Wolfwood would explode. He had to shut the man up. Stop him from talking. Stop the nonsense that spilled from his mouth. Stop the almost painful innocence that tinged his otherwise troubled nature.

"You really want to know?" he asked. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Yes," Vash looked over at him with a goofy smile, fully prepared for his friend to regale him with stories of beautiful women and heated moments.

He didn't expect what happened next.

He didn't expect the wall of heat that pounded him when Wolfwood turned and yanked on his hair, pulled his mouth hard against his.

He didn't expect the tingle that erupted under his skin as a calloused thumb stroked his jawbone.

And suddenly, he couldn't remember how to think, how to breathe, what his own name was, why he was here or where they were. Wolfwood was his every single sense, a presence that wrapped around his brain in a haze of whiskey and desire.

As quickly as the onslaught had begun, it ended. Wolfwood released him rougher than he meant to, and Vash nearly stumbled off his bar stool. Those green eyes stared up at him in disbelief, in amazement, and Wolfwood couldn't handle it.

"That's what it's like." He growled, then pushed himself away from the and snatched the bottle. To the blatant disbelief of the barman and trembling uncertainty of his friend, Wolfwood shoved through the swinging divide and disappeared into the silent night; hoping the remainder of the whiskey would drown out the fireworks going off in his brain.

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