@wolfwoocl [From here because words either "no" or they run away and expect me to follow...]
It should be reassuring. Somehow. It should probably be calming, or at least de-escalating, something--
Something he's never been all that good at himself, truth be told. (Was it? Was the truth being told at all?)
He is not fire and shadow. He's never felt that. He is shapes and substance and power and horror, and that is... related. It's related. It's not really anger he feels, but that's all he has to go on. Grasp. There's a flash of other shapes in his shadow, spreading, opening, towering above him -- there and gone. They exist. They do not exist.
He exists.
He should not exist.
It still smarts. Where the first rock struck. There were more, they hurt too, but they don't linger.
He is angry, but he's already knee-deep in the mistake he's about to make to admit that he's directing his anger where it's not deserved. Fire and shadow; a low, hot, smoldering flame.
It takes no effort to close the distance between them. They aren't that far away in the first place, but Vash can't feel any effort made to striding over and clasping his hands around Wolfwood's shirt collar. Even now he's careful not to tear, but the grasp is solid. Offering no alternative but to be pulled closer, cigarette ignored. Lingering smoke only adding to the picture he's sure to be making.
There's nothing pleasant about his voice. Nothing playful, no whine, no kindness. It's old, worn rock ridges that are made of stone that gets sharpened by time and sand, not rounded. "Aren't you supposed to be afraid of me too?"