[If Vash takes issue with his prosthetic being soaped up, he doesn't vocalize it. He's too busy scowling down at Wolfwood for his little quips. Yes, it was the Independent's fault for lining up the clear shot, but the least he could ask for is a little bit of resistance. Just what is he supposed to do — start laughing.

The only thing that saves him from just that is the way those hands move across his skin. His eyes close for just a second, allowing himself to well and truly enjoy the gentle caresses without doubting if his battered, broken body was worthy of the attention. Like this, he can pretend he's normal. Put together. Worth touching.

— and then he squawks as loud as he can, jaw practically unhinging in its offense, as Wolfwood honks his tit.]

Nick, you -

[The "anger" doesn't last, not when he's forced to reconcile that stricken glance, or reckon with the timbre of the voice that follows.]

You - can't go talkin' to me like that. You're gonna make me weak in the knees! Do you want me to fall over?