Wolfwood sits straddling a chair backward, sleeves rolled, nearby bottle of hooch already open and sampled from. She has her elbow planted firmly in the centre of the table grimy from a hundred vagabonds passing through, a woman on a mission in this Godforsaken saloon. The Lord might prefer she dedicate herself towards a different sort of mission—one of faith, perhaps—but sometimes all a woman wants to do with her God-given time is have a couple puffs and put a legendary outlaw to shame.
"Alright, Spikey. Let's see what you got." Cigarette bobs between sharp, grinning teeth.
Vash grins back at her, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth. Wolfwood doesn't believe it for a damn second, and there it is—his left arm halfway to the table before he falters, blinking like he's noticed something interesting, and swaps it for the right. Yeah, she figured he'd try something like that. "Well, that's no fun," he says, flexing his hand for her to take.
Rocking the chair forward a little more. Better to get the grip on him she needs. "Aren't you always the one going on about fair fights?"
Leather warm under her palm. Vash's eyes have that look they get when he's trying to read her, making the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably, but the smile is still in there, lifting his sunglasses on the apples of his cheeks. "Only when it's not you!"
And in her grip, the sudden shift of muscles all down his arm putting the pressure on like the flick of a switch; Wolfwood's shoulders ratchet up at the first surge of it and hold her steady, pushing back against a power she knows could lay her out flat right there if he wanted it to, shifting just below the surface of Vash's being, there but restrained. Doesn't make him any kind of pushover, though. She whistles a breath past clenched teeth. "--Oi!"
"You wanted it to be fair," he says, diamonds in his grin she sometimes wouldn't mind knocking out and cashing in.
Obnoxious brat.
For a few seconds, the challenge is there, balanced so perfectly down the middle even when she's pushing for it harder that she's gotta wonder if he isn't adapting himself to her by the second. Wouldn't put it past him. Then something in the angle changes to favouring her more than Vash, and that's gotta be a conscious decision, because the strength is still there in every inch of him, even though it's his arm giving way towards the table. He could take this back from her in an instant. All Vash needs, laughing at her from across the table, is a reason to.
But she knows he's needing this more and more, something to keep that lightning mind occupied in these rare few moments they aren't walking towards... whatever the hell it's gonna be. Sooner or later they'll run dry and she'll find out how many of her lies made it past him in one piece. Tonight, though, it's just her and him and one more shitty saloon that stinks of a thousand and one nights of sweat. They might as well keep on enjoying while it's here.
So, yeah, alright. Good. They've still got this going for them. The last of the tension goes and his arm slams to the table, hard enough to rattle the booze, Wolfwood's lips twitching into a barbed grin that's met with snorted laughter. For once she's not in the mood to find it obnoxious.
"That's one for me."
He shakes out his hand and throws back shot with that same dopey grin as always. Like he isn't perfectly happy losing to her, faking sheepish. "Ahhh... how does best two out of three sound?"
#19. ARM-WRESTLING
canon equivalent: none. headcanon.
Wolfwood sits straddling a chair backward, sleeves rolled, nearby bottle of hooch already open and sampled from. She has her elbow planted firmly in the centre of the table grimy from a hundred vagabonds passing through, a woman on a mission in this Godforsaken saloon. The Lord might prefer she dedicate herself towards a different sort of mission—one of faith, perhaps—but sometimes all a woman wants to do with her God-given time is have a couple puffs and put a legendary outlaw to shame.
"Alright, Spikey. Let's see what you got." Cigarette bobs between sharp, grinning teeth.
Vash grins back at her, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth. Wolfwood doesn't believe it for a damn second, and there it is—his left arm halfway to the table before he falters, blinking like he's noticed something interesting, and swaps it for the right. Yeah, she figured he'd try something like that. "Well, that's no fun," he says, flexing his hand for her to take.
Rocking the chair forward a little more. Better to get the grip on him she needs. "Aren't you always the one going on about fair fights?"
Leather warm under her palm. Vash's eyes have that look they get when he's trying to read her, making the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably, but the smile is still in there, lifting his sunglasses on the apples of his cheeks. "Only when it's not you!"
And in her grip, the sudden shift of muscles all down his arm putting the pressure on like the flick of a switch; Wolfwood's shoulders ratchet up at the first surge of it and hold her steady, pushing back against a power she knows could lay her out flat right there if he wanted it to, shifting just below the surface of Vash's being, there but restrained. Doesn't make him any kind of pushover, though. She whistles a breath past clenched teeth. "--Oi!"
"You wanted it to be fair," he says, diamonds in his grin she sometimes wouldn't mind knocking out and cashing in.
Obnoxious brat.
For a few seconds, the challenge is there, balanced so perfectly down the middle even when she's pushing for it harder that she's gotta wonder if he isn't adapting himself to her by the second. Wouldn't put it past him. Then something in the angle changes to favouring her more than Vash, and that's gotta be a conscious decision, because the strength is still there in every inch of him, even though it's his arm giving way towards the table. He could take this back from her in an instant. All Vash needs, laughing at her from across the table, is a reason to.
But she knows he's needing this more and more, something to keep that lightning mind occupied in these rare few moments they aren't walking towards... whatever the hell it's gonna be. Sooner or later they'll run dry and she'll find out how many of her lies made it past him in one piece. Tonight, though, it's just her and him and one more shitty saloon that stinks of a thousand and one nights of sweat. They might as well keep on enjoying while it's here.
So, yeah, alright. Good. They've still got this going for them. The last of the tension goes and his arm slams to the table, hard enough to rattle the booze, Wolfwood's lips twitching into a barbed grin that's met with snorted laughter. For once she's not in the mood to find it obnoxious.
"That's one for me."
He shakes out his hand and throws back shot with that same dopey grin as always. Like he isn't perfectly happy losing to her, faking sheepish. "Ahhh... how does best two out of three sound?"
au variances:
• none.
in sum:
• these fucking stupid alcoholic losers