“Would you want something closer range?” Vaggie asks, blunt. “Huh?” He blinks at her. “I’m not actually giving up my guns, I was joking.” She doesn’t elaborate and Angel doesn’t push. It surprises him when once their pacing has taken them to the bow of the ship that Vaggie comes to a stop… …and offers him an angelic steel hand knife. “Oh. I was also joking about getting me a gift, you don't gotta do all that,” he assures her. “In case you find yourself in need of a closer range weapon,” she explains, stiff. It takes Angel a few seconds to realize she’s offering the knife because she’s worried about him. “You joke too much, anyway.” He accepts the blade, a tad confused, but he doesn’t question it out loud. “Thank ya, doll,” he says instead, soft. She flicks her eyes up to his. In this moment, Angel forgives Vaggie for the hurt she’s done him. He knows she never expected it, would never ask for it. He also knows he doesn’t have to say it for her to know. “Don’t mention it.” Using her hand to close his fist over the dagger’s handle, she reiterates, “Seriously, don’t mention it. To anyone. The fewer people who know you have this, the better.”
Sometimes Chekhov’s gun exists to misfire.
#iafuwwanam #RisingAngels
(this is the nicest Vaggi and Angel are to each other through the entire fic lmao they antagonize, bicker, and awkwardly have each other’s backs at every other time)
