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It all happens in a flash. They’re standing outside a house, patiently waiting for the owner to answer the door. The owner, who, according to their files, is 96 years old.
Too bad files don’t mention Wesen.
She may be 96, but she steps out, teeth bared, spikes covering her body. Judging by Hank’s alarmed noises, she isn’t trying to hide it: she’s woging for all the world to see. When she sees Nick, she growls, and the spikes start to move and shake. Slowly, at first, then faster. Wild.
As the first spike comes free, all Nick can think is that he really hates this job sometimes. He drops to the ground, and Hank follows suit, falling back behind some bushes as the spikes begin to fly. They’re short, but one shatters a terracotta pot, so Nick would rather not get stabbed with one.
A spike buries itself in the bush, barely missing Hank, and Hank turns to look at it. In the next moment, another one comes flying. It’s aimed right at Hank’s head, and Nick’s heart stops. There’s no time to think, much less cry out. There is only time to act.
He launches himself forward, pushing Hank down, and pain rips through him. His shoulder, he realizes distantly. It didn’t hit a bone-he’s pretty sure it would have shattered like the pot-but it still hurts, so much he can hardly think.
“Nick?” Hank pulls free, looking him over urgently, and Nick kind of wants to tell him to stop and deal with the woman, but he can hardly string the thought together, much less force it out. “Nick, are you okay?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for an answer; Nick’s not sure he could give one at the moment. Instead, he fires off a couple of rounds, and the spikes stop coming. Then, he turns his attention back to Nick, pulling off his jacket and pressing it to Nick’s shoulder. It hurts, but Nick grits his teeth; he knows how important it is to stop the bleeding.
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” Hank mutters. “That thing could be infected. Or worse: poisoned.”
True, but if it’s poison, it won’t be the kind doctors know how to deal with. “Rosalee,” he manages, just barely. “Monroe.”
Hank blinks. “You sure about that? That doesn’t look good, Nick.” And truly, Nick appreciates how unfailingly honest Hank is with him; he’s glad he can finally be honest in return. But just this once, a little lie might be nice. “Look, I’m still figuring all this stuff out, and if you think they can help you, we’ll go there. But my gut’s telling me hospital. ”
Understandable, but… “Trust… Me.” He’s also really starting to think it is poisoned, because the pain isn’t fading to a dull roar. If this were just a cut, it wouldn’t be this bad. Instead, it seems to be getting worse; his whole arm burns, and his neck is starting to ache.
With a sigh, Hank helps him to his feet. “Of course I trust you, man. Come on. Let’s go.”
They make their way to the car slowly, Hank carefully supporting Nick’s injured right side. It’s only when they’re halfway there that Nick thinks to ask: “The… Lady?”
Hank’s expression goes dark, but he says only, “She won’t be hurting you again.”
-
The car ride is nothing short of miserable. Pain creeps down his spine, up his neck, and all through his body. Even his feet hurt, which he thinks is a little absurd. Most terrifying, though, is the steadily growing ache in his head. He’s never been much of a scientist, but poison and brains can’t mix well.
“Stay with me,” Hank says, more than once. He says other things, too-chatting about sports, Carly, the weather, weird cases they’ve worked over the years, and more-but Nick doesn’t catch most of it, too focused on simply staying awake.
He tries to keep still, because movement seems to make it worse, so at first, he doesn’t realize what’s happening. But when the jacket he’s been pressing to his shoulder slips to the floor, and he tries to reach for it, his stomach drops.
“Hank,” he says, or tries, but the sound that comes out is more of a breath. His mouth won’t move, just like his hands. His arms. His feet. He does a quick self-evaluation, and panic spirals through him. “Hank!”
It’s still little more than a wheeze, but at least it gets Hank’s attention. He glances at the rearview mirror. “Nick? You hanging in there?”
Nick tries to respond, but of course, he can barely get a sound out. Hank’s eyes widen, and the terror reflected in them matches Nick’s feelings exactly.
“You can’t move.” It isn’t a question. “Okay, hold on. We’re almost there.”
Not going anywhere, Nick wants to say.
The pain doesn’t stop; if anything, it gets worse. Every part of his body feels like it’s being ripped apart, and he can’t move, can’t shift, can’t do anything to get even a moment of temporary relief. His eyes water, and he blinks-at least that, he can still do, although it’s sluggish, and Nick suspects even that will be gone soon-but can do nothing else as the tears trickle down his cheeks.
Finally, the car comes to a stop. Hank scrambles out of the car, not even closing his door as he rushes to the store. Nick listens as best he can, if only for something to focus on besides the pain.
“The store’s closed,” Hank announces, and for a terrifying second, Nick thinks he’s doomed. Then, Monroe’s voice joins the mix.
“Wait, there are customers here. You can’t just-”
Rosalee, thankfully, understands. “Is Nick okay?”
“No,” Hank says simply. Silence, for several agonizing moments. Then-
“The store is closed.” Rosalee’s voice is loud and clear, unyielding, and after a beat, Nick hears footsteps, followed by cars pulling away. “Where is he?”
“Car.”
Nick hears them coming, and even though he can’t turn his head to look at them, something in his stomach loosens at the knowledge that they’re here, and they’re going to help him. The door by his head opens, and soft gasps fill the air. Rosalee? Monroe? Both? He thinks both, although he can’t be sure.
“Who did this to him?” Monroe asks, horrified, and Hank clears his throat.
“A ninety-six year old lady. I think she was… You know… Like you guys. Wesen. But she had spikes all over her.”
Rosalee pauses. “You could see her?”
“Yeah. Apparently, she wasn’t too interested in hiding.”
This is all very fascinating, probably, but everything hurts, and Nick can’t even open his mouth to say, hey, can you help me or not? He tries, and the sound that slips from his lips is little more than a whimper.
It’s enough, though. “Get him inside,” Rosalee orders, and Nick’s distantly aware of Monroe and Hank working together, pulling him from the car and carrying him in. And oh, right, movement makes it worse. They’re trying to be careful, he can tell, but every step jostles him, sending a jolt of pain through him.
“I know,” Monroe says once, softly. “I’m sorry. We’ve gotta do this.”
He wonders how Monroe can tell something’s wrong. Then, it occurs to him that it might not be pain blurring his vision. Is he still crying?
Finally, he’s secured on the couch in the back of the store, and Rosalee’s fingers are gently prodding the wound. “You said she was covered in spikes?” She checks, pushing fabric aside to get a better look. “Like a porcupine?”
“No,” Hank answers slowly. “No, this was something else. The spikes were all spread out. And they kinda wiggled around, then they just… Went flying.”
Rosalee draws in a sharp breath, and Nick really doesn’t like the sound. “If this is what I think it is, it’s bad. We need to start working on an antidote right away.”
If Hank hears her, he doesn’t acknowledge her words. “It was supposed to hit me,” he says, and Nick wants to shake him. “I didn’t even see it coming. If Nick hadn’t pushed me out of the way-”
“Hey.” Rosalee’s voice is gentle, but firm. “Don’t you dare. We all know Nick would’ve done this for any one of us.”
“Heck,” Monroe chimes in. “Nick would’ve done this for a total stranger.”
“But he didn’t.” Hank’s tone reminds Nick so much of that horrible day: when he saw the Wildermann woge, and he desperately wanted someone to understand. “He did it for me. If he dies, that’s on me.”
Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not. Nick’s never thought of himself as a chatterbox, but now he desperately wishes he could speak.
Thankfully, Rosalee knows what to say. When does she not? “We’re going to help him, and he’s going to be okay, but he needs your help. Okay? You can’t help us if you’re busy blaming yourself.”
“Okay.” Sounding a little steadier, Hank adds, “You said you know what this is?”
“I think so, yeah. Giftdorn.” He's not even going to try to figure out what that is; he'll ask later. “First, I need to give him a shot. Then I’ll run some tests.”
Hank sounds as confused as Nick feels. “Why give him the shot before you know what you’re dealing with?”
Nick really doesn’t like the hesitation that follows.
“Because the tests are going to hurt,” Rosalee admits finally. Then, there is a stabbing pain in Nick’s right arm-somehow noticeable over everything else-and then only blissful darkness.
-
He wakes slowly, eyelids heavy, and it takes him several seconds to realize he can still move them. Still? Again?
His body aches, but it isn’t the overwhelming, burning pain from before, and he experimentally wiggles a finger. It moves, and he takes that as a good sign, moving onto his hands. He’s slow, sluggish, like a lagging computer, but he’s moving.
Tentatively, he tries to sit up. And oh, that was a bad idea; the room seems to spin around him, and he grabs the edge of the couch to keep from toppling over completely.
“Whoa, easy.” Hank appears at his side-where did he come from?-catching Nick by the shoulders, and maneuvering him back against the pillows. “You just came real close to dying. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
Reluctantly, Nick obeys, settling back into the admittedly comfy nest they’ve put together for hum. “What happened?” He checks, and his speech is just a little slurred, most likely because his whole body is still moving at half speed.
Hank reaches past the bed, pulling a chair up in front of Nick (that must be where he came from, Nick muses), and settles in beside him. “That Giftdorn got you good,” he explains. “The poison was killing you. Basically shutting everything down in the most painful way possible.” That sounds about right. “If Rosalee’d been any later getting that cure to you…”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. “Well, she wasn’t. I’m fine. Okay?”
To his surprise, Hank scoffs. “You nearly stopped breathing on me, Nick. Twice. So don’t try to tell me you’re fine. That’s not fine. You shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way.”
Enough of this. He musters all his strength, fixing Hank with a deadly Grimm stare. It hardly seems to phase him, but at least it’s something. “Would you have done the same for me?”
A deafening silence. Then… “You know I would have. But-”
“Then let it go. Please.”
Another silence, this one much longer, before Hank sighs in surrender. “Fine. But if I let it go, you’re not allowed to die on me. We clear?”
It’s not a promise he can make, and they both know it. Briefly, he considers a kind lie, but he’s lied so much to Hank lately. Now that the truth is out there, the last thing he wants to do is start lying again. “Where are Monroe and Rosalee?” He asks instead, and Hank’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push.
“In front. I’ll go get them. They’ve been trying to clear up that mess.”
He says that like it should mean something to Nick, but he can only stare blankly back. “What mess?”
Hank stops short. “You don’t remember?”
Oh, he really doesn’t like the implications of that. “What did I do?”
Hank winces. “You woke up while they were treating you. They’d reversed the whole paralysis thing, but you were still hurting pretty bad, and you… You thrashed around a lot. Broke some bottles, spilled some stuff. That sort of thing.”
Nick’s stomach turns. He hardly dares ask, but he has to know- “Did I hurt anyone?”
“No.” Hank’s voice is blessedly firm. “Not gonna lie, a couple of those bottles got pretty close to Rosalee, but you didn’t hit her. She’s fine, Monroe’s fine, I’m fine, and you’re going to be fine. Got it?”
“Got it.” His eyes fall shut, and he doesn’t try to fight them. He’s not exactly tired, but his eyes ache as much as the rest of him, and he allows them a few moments to rest. Then, he clears his throat. “I need to see them.”
To see that they’re okay. To see for himself that he didn’t do any permanent damage. He trusts Hank completely, but this is something he needs to see.
Hank seems to understand, because he nods, rising to his feet. “Be right back.”
True to his word, he returns seconds later, Monroe and Rosalee at his side. They both look exhausted- so does Hank, for that matter-but unharmed, and the smiles they give him are warm and sincere.
“How are you feeling, dude?” Monroe’s voice is even. Calm. Comforting, in a way.
“Better.” At Hank’s stern look, he amends, “Sore. But a lot better than before. Thank you guys. All of you,” he adds, in case Hank feels like he called them over to thank just them. “If it weren’t for you, I-”
“Don’t go there.” Rosalee reaches out, giving him a quick but firm hug. “You’re okay. And I’m just glad we could help.”
Nick swallows, looking between his friends gratefully. “Sorry about the shop.”
Monroe rolls his eyes, waving him off. “We’ll send you a bill.”
“Monroe!” Rosalee scolds, but there’s no heat behind it. Her eyes dance, and tension uncoils from Nick’s chest. Maybe everything really is okay.
“We called Juliette,” Monroe adds, and Nick glances at the clock, wincing. It’s definitely later than he realized. “She seemed pretty worried about you,” he adds, and it’s probably meant to be comforting-even without her memories, she cares what happens to him-but the last thing he wants to do is worry her. Ever. “I mean, we had to fudge a few details, of course, but… She’s going to save you some dinner.”
“And I’ve been running interference with the captain,” Hank chimes in. “I’ll let you decide what we’re going to tell him, though.”
“Gee, thanks.” Briefly, Nick tries to imagine explaining to the always composed, always practical Renard that he was attacked by a shapeshifter with poison spikes. He’d probably be stared out of the precinct.
Hank offers a dry grin. “Any time.” Then, more seriously, he adds, “Whenever you feel up to it, I’ll drive you home. I’ll handle the paperwork tonight.”
He should probably head home. But this couch really is comfortable, and there’s something unnerving about the knowledge that he could have died today. He’s not quite ready to face the love of his life looking at him like a stranger. “I should probably wait just a little longer.”
If his motives are too transparent, no one says anything. “Good idea.” Rosalee’s voice is gentle. “Get your strength up. We’ll stay with you.”
“Yeah, man.” Monroe pats him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Not on our watch,” Hank agrees, and Nick closes his eyes once more. At least for the moment, he’s safe.