[ motorcycle is like the sexiest way to travel, Vergil is missing out and also a dork.

if Wolfwood were a different man, he'd question why Vergil needed a sword on his belt, but Wolfwood is Wolfwood, so it makes sense for the two of them to walk strapped into whatever errand they're getting into, even if it's going to be as mundane as picking up Vergil's mail and other sundries.

he stands very, very still and continues to pull the flower apart with his eyes as Vergil informs him how little he cares and how totes fine he is with murdering small children, tossing his weird, tangled relationship with Vash up in the air and showing off its strange, snared parts, the pieces of them that don't fit together and the pieces that are tied up by two different red strings. he traces his tongue over the inside of his teeth and rolls his shoulders in a bit of a shrug. ]

Makes sense when you put it that way.

[ because what else is there to say? Vergil isn't Dante--where Dante wants to push and pull and dig deeper, Vergil's calculated and clinical and not interested in the mess that is Nicholas D. Wolfwood other than how it keeps Dante entertained. the man has the audacity to demure, and Wolfwood finally looks back at him with the flattest expression he can muster when he's not wearing his sunglasses, eyes narrowed and lips pressed flat. ]

Considerin' I don't want to go with you in the first place, yes, yes it is, but I'm already committed to the idea so.