Chapter Text
Wormwood was never good with being nervous.
He hated how it felt. It crept from his stomach, up to his chest and down to his legs, making him wobble and sweat. It would be showcased all over his face and body language for anyone to see and ask him about, which just made it worse, really. Wormwood would unconsciously pick at his leaves, tugging and scraping at them as his thoughts pulled against his mind, and the marks left behind would be displayed clear as day. If Wormwood could get rid of any feeling, forever dispel it from his mind, it would be anxiousness. They hated it in every sense, every scenario.
Now, as he watched Wilson pace around in front of him, a makeshift notepad and pencil in hand, Wormwood felt like he must just die from it all.
It wasn’t to say Wilson had never pressed him about himself before – he had done so many, many times, in fact, to a point the plant could say he was used to it. Every other day the man would come up with new questions, and practically sprint across the base all the way to the farm to pull Wormwood aside, before showering him in confusing words and assumptions he didn’t understand in the slightest. It had been like this since the plant had first stumbled into the survivor’s lives, and it would likely continue for quite a while after now. Wormwood wasn’t surprised by it anymore.
And yet, there they were, shaking like a frightened dog.
Wormwood was never one to speak about himself often, and for good reason - there simply wasn’t much to say. Their origins held no interest to them, and the future looked fine, so he never really took the time to sit down and think about himself, even as Wilson practically begged him for answers. Where had he come from? What or who made him? How did he work? It didn’t matter, did it? It wasn’t like Wormwood knew, and there was no way for anyone else to know. So, whatever, right?
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. So why did Wilson keep coming back?
Wilson stopped pacing and looked up to Wormwood, noticing they hadn’t answered him.
“Why do you act the way you do on full moon nights?” He reinstated.
Wormwood steeled his resolve. “What- what friend mean?”
“Full moon nights. You know, when the moon is completely visible, and the light keeps Charlie at bay. Happens once every approximate 22 days?”
“Know what friend means by that, just- friend thinks act weird, then?” Wormwood balled his hands gently, trying to keep himself from sounding mean or defensive.
“Yes, I mean- for starters I rarely see you, then, and whenever I do catch sight of you, you’re completely separated from the rest of us, and you're always fiddling with your gem! Do you know why that is?”
“...No.” Wormwood answered, honestly. “Haven’t noticed, if doing anything weird. Sometimes feel weird, but-”
“You feel weird?” Wilson perked up. Wormwood began to hate the attention. “On full moon nights, you feel different? How so?”
Wormwood opened his mouth as if to answer Wilson, but suddenly, he stopped. He couldn’t speak. He knew what he wanted to describe, and the words were formed in his head, but he couldn't say them. Something was holding him back. Something, in his mind, or maybe his chest, was compelling him to stay silent on the details. Wormwood cleared his throat, and tried answering more nonchalantly than he originally planned.
“.. Sorry-sorry, I- hmm.” Wormwood muttered. “Just.. just feel weird. No way to say.”
Wilson seemed to buy that, notating it in his journal. Or maybe he was taking notes on Wormwood’s reluctance. They didn’t want to know, either way. Whatever picture Wilson was beginning to form in his mind was most definitely wrong, far-fetched and skewed, and Wormwood didn’t want to hear a thing about it.
Wormwood’s fists clenched tighter. They wanted to be anywhere else in the world right now. They shut their eyes, and tried not to think about Wilson, or the full moon, or their gem.
It didn’t matter.