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"I look ridiculous," Vash mutters past the downturned corner of his mouth and the bobby pins in his teeth. Looking in the mirror, Vash adjusts the great big feather hairpiece clinging haphazardly to his head, pulling it back to center each time it slips to the side and adding another pin. By his count he's up to seven, and he'll probably need five more before it decides to stay in place. Plus a couple more for good luck.
"Of course you do," Meryl comments dryly from the other end of the dressing room, "you always look ridiculous."
Vash's expression sours into a full pout at that, his nose scrunching up. While he'd agreed to try out the whole drag-disguise thing, that didn't mean he consented to attacks on his personal style. He holds back a sigh, forcing another bobby pin into his hair. Nobody appreciates the effort he puts into looking good.
"Don't listen to senpai, Mr. Vash! I think you make a very pretty lady!"
Okay, maybe one person appreciates him. He can't help but smile — Milly never fails to lift his spirits.
"Thank you, Milly!"
Meryl scoffs. Vash can't see her face from this angle, but he can practically hear her rolling her eyes.
Vash glances at Milly in the mirror. She's wearing her usual serene smile, aiming it at Vash over the pile of feather boas, sashes, and shawls she appears to be sorting through. She nods eagerly once she catches his eye.
"Certainly!" Milly chirps, picking out a lovely green boa and setting it over the back of a chair. "Senpai is probably just jealous that her legs aren't as long and slender as yours, Mr. Vash—"
"Milly!!" Meryl squawks. She whips her head around and her eyes wide, that trademark 'did you really just say that' expression of disbelief and righteous indignation written all over her face. Milly has the decency to pause and look just a little bit ashamed, though they all know she meant exactly what she said.
"—oh! Sorry, senpai. Your legs look just as nice as Mr. Vash's in tights, I promise!"
This makes Meryl choke and splutter out something, but Vash can't hear what she says over his own guffaws. Milly must be digging herself a hole with the way Meryl goes bright red. He has to hold onto the headpiece as they turn into big belly laughs, watching the girls go back and forth.
Vash's bare shoulders shake with laughter. He wipes a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, just in time to catch Meryl in the mirror as she beams a a shoe at his head. Vash ducks but it very nearly knocks his headpiece off, and now it's his turn to squawk in indignation.
"Hey! Be careful, Meryl! I don't want to have to pin this back in place again!"
"I don't even know why you're wearing that silly thing! You're a bird-brain without it!"
From there they devolve into a pointless shouting match. They must get pretty loud, because a minute later there's a loud knock at the door. It's the proprietor's voice on the other side of the wall, and he sounds mildly irritated himself.
"Ladies!" He calls, "Is everything alright in there? We have guests complaining about the shouting!"
Vash doubts that very much, even if this place caters to more high-minded clientele. He clears his throat, pitching his voice up and opening his mouth to respond, but Milly beats him to it. Bless her.
"Yes, sir!" Her voice is sweet, even as it carries loudly across the small dressing room. "We're just doing our warm-ups!"
This seems to satisfy the proprietor. Or at least throw him for enough of a loop that he decides he doesn't want to get involved. "…alright, well. Bring it down a little, won't you? I need you on the floor in ten!"
//
Wolfwood — good old reliable Wolfwood — is already in position and working his magic by the time the three of them spread out across the tavern's dining floor.
The individual they're after is this town's magistrate, a wealthy man with a proclivity to drink and deal like any other, only with a posse of henchmen in tow. He's also a raging misogynist. Which isn't surprising, but made it pretty easy to single out Wolfwood and volunteer him to take point while the rest of them try to butter up his friends. Well, while the girls try to butter them up, anyway. Even in disguise a too-close look at Vash risks blowing his cover (and, privately, he knows that a mannish, scarred-up 'lady' is a much less desirable prospect compared to either of his companions).
So, Vash is stuck making the rounds, running drinks and food. He keeps a close eye on the girls, though he knows they can handle themselves. Meryl seems to have gotten a couple of them on the hook right away. Judging by the looks on their faces the two men are underestimating her, probably running off at the mouth in an attempt to impress her — perfect. Milly, for her part, appears to be exercising her signature charm to ply another three cronies with drinks and cards, getting them loose and distracted. Also perfect. Vash drops off three more drinks with her on his way back down the stairs, shooting her a sly little wink as he sweeps his skirts and sidles on by.
And then there's Wolfwood. He's seated at a table with the mark, getting on like a house on fire if the way he's gesticulating and grinning big is any metric of success. No doubt telling one of his tall tales. The man they're after is flush with alcohol and grinning right back at Wolfwood, nodding along.
Vash isn't surprised. That man could charm the socks off a cat.
He doesn't have to get Wolfwood's attention; their eyes meet as soon as he steps off the staircase, one of their wordless, sideways exchanges that Vash has grown fond of. Wolfwood inclines his head slightly and Vash gets the picture. One stop by the bar later and Vash is swinging back around to their table with two extra-strong old fashioneds on his tray.
"—so you see, selection is the tricky part of this business," Vash hears their mark saying to Wolfwood, no doubt discussing the particulars of his…side profession.
"Another round, gentlemen?" Vash asks in his pitched-up, feminine lilt. He doesn't wait for an answer, plucking both glasses off his tray and setting them down in front of the men.
Wolfwood gives him a kind smile. Vash thinks if he were wearing a hat he might tip it. Instead, he merely raises his glass to Vash with a "much obliged," and takes a sip.
Vash knows it's all an act, but it's silly and charming, and it makes him smile anyway. Vash can pretend his little giggle is part of his act, too.
"Can I get you anything else?" He asks, tearing his eyes from Wolfwood to glance politely at their mark. The man is eyeing him openly, looking Vash up and down like a piece of meat. Or like something he scraped off the heel of his boot. It makes Vash's skin crawl. He must not like what he sees; his expression goes a little sour and he leans into Wolfwood's space, nudging his new drinking buddy in the side.
"See, this is what I'm talking about," he says to Wolfwood like Vash isn't even there, "selection is our bread and butter — what sets us apart from the other guys!" He gestures to Vash with his glass. "You won't find a broad this chewed-up and spat-out in our catalog, nosiree!" The man gives a snort-laugh into the next sip of his drink.
Vash's face falls. He can feel it slip into an annoyed grimace, teeth on edge. The hand at his side curls into a fist.
It's not worth it.
But before Vash can turn on his heel and walk away in a huff, Wolfwood opens his mouth.
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not as shrewd of a businessman as you are, James," Wolfwood drawls.
Vash takes a break from glaring daggers at this pig of a man to look at Wolfwood. Expecting eye contact and not finding it throws him for a bit of a loop, because Wolfwood is looking at him, just—
Just, he's looking— he's—
A thrill runs down Vash's spine as he comes to grips with the fact that Wolfwood is dragging his eyes down the length of Vash's body in the way that men do, faced with a working woman. In the dim tavern light Wolfwood's dark eyes threaten to swallow him up right there; Vash can practically feel them, roaming over his bare shoulders, lingering at his waist, feasting on the bits of leg that peek out of Vash's skirts.
All of a sudden Vash is feeling really hot. Like, physically. In the face and down his neck. Did they turn the heat on in here, or something? He shifts in place, fidgeting with his skirt. A shift of his heel and he's horrified, feeling the graze of damp fabric against his thigh. Sweat. Surely that's just sweat—
For his own safety and sanity Vash has to avert his eyes. Looking back at their mark is a really effective mood killer. He's grinning, watching Wolfwood watch Vash.
"I'm a sucker for a pretty smile," Wolfwood continues, "and this little lady's got them in spades. Don't you, sweetheart?"
Vash's head whips back to Wolfwood, gawping at him in disbelief. Wearing his sleaziest smile (dear god, why does that work on him?) Wolfwood edges closer to Vash. He wraps a hand around Vash's wrist, pulling him in close.
"Wh— h-huh?? Aha, ahaha—" Vash replies intelligently, feeling like his face is about to melt off. Reflexively he can feel his lips curling into a wobbly, nervous smile.
"See?" Wolfwood murmurs, shooting Vash a sharp smile in reply.
He holds Vash's hand like he's a gentleman, the other sliding up Vash's elbow. Wolfwood hooks his fingers into the end of Vash's long costume glove, dragging it all the way down the Vash's wrist. He hums quietly, taking in the expanse of exposed skin, before fixing Vash with those damn hypnotic eyes once again.
"In spades."
Wolfwood is leaning in. He's leaning in, and Vash's heart is about to run away, bags packed and a ticket on the first steamer out of town in hand.
Without ever letting go of his hand, without ever breaking eye contact, Wolfwood presses his lips softly to the inside of Vash's bare wrist. It's completely chaste, and yet somehow still incredibly vulgar. Obscene.
"Can you smile for me, darlin'?" Wolfwood urges. He lays another kiss to Vash's inner arm, one in the crook of his elbow.
Vash feels like he might die on his feet. The smile he musters is crooked and strange, but Wolfwood isn't even paying attention. No, he's busy, laying more kisses up Vash's bicep. Squeezing his fingers.
Wolfwood's mouth is dangerously close to Vash's neck when Vash feels a stray hand dip under his skirts. His instincts urge him to flinch away but he's rooted to the spot, transfixed by this display of Wolfwood's.
Vash's thigh tenses as he feels the press of cold metal against it. The outline is familiar, abundantly clear to Vash that it's his handgun as soon as Wolfwood tucks the muzzle into his garter. It's over as quickly as it started — and their mark didn't seem to notice, paying too much attention to the show happening up top. Infuriatingly polite, Wolfwood pulls Vash's skirts securely over his thigh, giving it a pat.
And just like that, Wolfwood releases his arm. They exchange one last glance before Vash is off like a shot, stumbling away from the table, blushing to high heaven.
Behind him he hears their mark howling with laughter, rattling the table as he pounds it in glee.
"You sure got a way with the girls, huh!?"