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Nicholas can’t explain what’s wrong with him.
Well… okay. There’s a lot of things wrong with him, to be fair, and most of them can be explained. Those explanations being, in no particular order, Chapel, William Conrad, and Millions Fucking Knives.
What he can’t explain is how his body aches, and yet every test Conrad runs comes up negative; the picture of perfect health, on paper.
To say that Wolfwood doesn’t like Conrad would be an understatement; if he didn’t think it would result in his untimely demise, he’d have snapped the guy’s neck years ago. But the shriveled excuse for a scientist is the only person he can go to for any health problems that may arise, because he’s the only person who knows what to look for in a genetically modified super-human that might prove that something is wrong.
But that’s the thing; there is nothing wrong.
Wolfwood had sat still through the examinations despite how desperately the doctor’s presence made him want to squirm, only for the fucker to heave a long-suffering sigh and tell him that there was nothing wrong with him, and to pick up his newest assignment on his way out.
And that… well. Admittedly, that fucked him up a little bit, because if there was nothing wrong with him, why did his joints feel rusted over? Why did his head hurt so bad? Why did the mere sensation of his clothes touching his skin make him ache like nothing he’s ever felt before?
He didn’t really know where else to go from there, so he simply continued on as he had before. He carried out his assignments with deadly efficiency as per usual, doing his best to ignore the way his bones creaked with every movement.
Some days were better than others. Some days, the pain was manageable. Always there, always weighing him down, but after a time, he’d built up a sort of tolerance—the pain was constant enough that it would often fade into the background. Most days, he could get along just fine and go about his day as if nothing were the matter.
Some days, though… Some days, every step was agony. Some days, a gentle breeze may as well have painstakingly flayed the skin from his bones for all the torment it put him through.
Days like this were bad enough when he was traveling alone, but at least he could finish his assignment with a few well-aimed bullets and find somewhere to hunker down through the worst of it.
But now, traveling with Vash and Meryl, days like this are borderline unbearable. He doesn’t have the option to wait out the pain, anymore; the longer they stay in one place, the more danger they’re in. He doesn’t have the option to simply gun down any would-be assailants to speed the process along, either, not to mention that Vash is laughably accident prone and Meryl is too hot headed for her own good.
How Wolfwood ended up being the only dipshit here with any sense of self preservation, he’ll never understand, but he’d made his bed, and now he has to lie in it. He’s not the only person who he needs to keep alive anymore, and unfortunately, that instinct to protect makes him a bit more reckless than he’d like to admit.
Which is how he finds himself in his current predicament, he would guess.
It starts the way it always does; a pit stop to stock up on supplies gone awry.
The three of them had considered staying the night when they first pulled into town, but after spending the entire afternoon with the feeling of watchful eyes glaring daggers into the backs of their heads, they’d decided it was best to simply purchase their supplies and move on.
Nicholas would be lying if he said he wasn’t frustrated and a little snippy—well, more snippy than usual, anyway—as a result. He really needs to sleep in an actual bed if he wants this to get any better, but beggars can’t be choosers. Still, it’s been bad enough that he’s taken to sleeping a good few yarz from Vash and Meryl—if they’re too far away to touch him, he can’t lash out instinctually when said touch feels like a knife in his skin.
In any case, he’d really been looking forward to sleeping in an actual bed tonight. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t have made too much of a difference, but he’d have taken a shitty couch or even a blanket and pillow on the floor if it meant being inside and out of the cold.
But regardless of how much Wolfwood curses his awful luck, it won’t change the fact that they’re clearly unwelcome here. So he helps Vash pack the van while Meryl does stock, updating her notes on how much they have of everything they need. She even keeps track of the Punisher’s ammo, the little weirdo.
They’ve just finished packing when Wolfwood sees it—the glint of a gun barrel pointing in their direction. Vash’s direction, specifically.
Punisher has already been strapped in atop the van, and Vash hasn’t noticed the danger just yet, too busy poking fun at Meryl for her inventory tracking as he is. There’s really only one way to prevent Vash from being shot in this scenario, and he’s already moving before he fully comes to this realization. He jumps in front of Vash before he can actually think about it, and the sound of a gunshot echoes through the air.
The bullet hits him, and he drops.
He’s vaguely aware of frantic voices around him, and he thinks maybe he’s being moved, but he can’t really focus on anything but the white hot pain setting his nerves ablaze. It’s centered somewhere around his shoulder, but he can’t pinpoint the exact spot—not with every inch of him screaming from the agony of it.
It’s only when a hand brushes over the worst of it that he’s pulled violently from his state of half-consciousness, sitting bolt upright with a gasp.
Vash reels backwards, hands pulled close to his torso as Wolfwood scrambles backwards until his back hits something solid; the car door. He takes a brief glance around as he tries to steady his breathing—they’re in the van. Meryl is in the front seat as always, ever the reliable getaway driver, and Vash is in the back with him. They must have hauled him into the car after he’d been shot.
“Wolfwood,” Vash says, “You’re hurt, let me help.”
The blond shuffles towards him on his knees, reaching out tentatively until Wolfwood chokes out a strained, “No.”
Vash’s hand freezes between them, both men staring at each other in shock for a moment.
“Nick?” Meryl says, glancing at the two of them through the rearview mirror, “What’s wrong?”
He shakes himself out of his stupor, digging through his pocket in search of a vial. “Nothin’,” he mumbles, “M’fine.”
“Wolfwood…” Vash says, watching as Wolfwood tosses back the serum, “What happened? We’ve seen you get shot plenty of times, and you’ve never gone down like that from one bullet.”
Nicholas grits his teeth as the drug gets to work pushing the bullet out of his body, sealing the wound shut behind it. He may not be at risk of bleeding out anymore, but the burning ache of the injury remains, leaving him to wonder if it was ever truly there at all. Just like it always does.
“Don’t worry about it, Spikey,” he says, fighting back a wince as he adjusts to sit properly in his seat, “I’m fine now. That’s all that matters.”
He doesn’t miss the glance that Meryl and Vash share through the mirror, but neither of them push him on the subject, so he pretends not to notice.
They go about the rest of their day the way they always do, once they’re sure they’re not being pursued. It seems as though the locals knew better than to chase after the Humanoid Typhoon’s bounty. The shot had likely just been fired to scare them off; if it had landed, Wolfwood imagines they may have been a bit more persistent.
Lucky that he’d stepped in, then.
They stop the car after a few hours of driving, when the child sun has just started to dip below the horizon. Vash tries to take on Nicholas’ share of camp setup, but Wolfwood would, frankly, rather lay down and die than ever feel like a weak link.
He snaps at Vash to quit hovering, and Vash only gives him a soft, sad look before going back to his own tasks. Somehow, that pisses him off more than if the dumbass had insisted.
Regardless, it doesn’t take too long to set up camp for the night. Once their sleeping bags are all laid out, Wolfwood gets to work lighting a fire so that he can start dinner.
Cooking for the three of them sounds like a monumental task, if he’s being honest, but he doesn’t trust Vash or Meryl to make anything decent with the provisions they have. Vash can cook some dishes just fine, but Meryl can’t cook to save her damn life. She’d gotten too used to university food, she’d said, whatever the hell that meant. He can’t imagine a fancy school like Meryl’s having less resources than a tiny orphanage on a cliff, but what does he know?
He’s so single-mindedly focused on his task of feeding the group for the night that he doesn’t realize Meryl is trying to get his attention until she touches his shoulder—the shoulder that’d been shot earlier in the day.
Wolfwood sucks in a sharp breath, flinching away from her touch hard enough that he nearly loses his balance despite being seated in the sand. He catches himself on his other arm, but he knows without even looking at the others that his reaction to such a gentle touch has sealed his fate. He curses his luck, and any gods who might currently be laughing at his misfortune, while he’s at it.
The three of them are silent for a moment before Meryl cuts the tension.
“Nick,” she says, crossing her arms, “something is clearly wrong. Please tell us what it is so that we can help.”
She says please, but it’s clearly not a request anymore.
Wolfwood sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not gonna let me off the hook about this, huh?” He’s met with silence and two pairs of concerned blue eyes staring into his damn soul. He needs to make these fuckers wear mirror sunglasses. The fucking puppy dog eyes always get him, no matter how much he tries to deny its effectiveness.
“Fine,” he concedes, “just… I’m tellin’ you now, you’re not gonna believe me.”
“When have we ever not believed you when you told us something important?” Vash asks, giving him a soft smile, “You know you can tell us anything, Wolfwood.”
Nicholas knows. It’s just so fucking hard to let others in on his closely guarded secrets. It makes him so damn antsy.
“Alright,” he responds, hesitant, “c’mere and sit down. This is gonna take some explaining.” Vash and Meryl sit on either side of him as he continues to poke at their supper.
“I dunno where to even start, to be honest,” he mutters, “but I guess I just… uh, hurt? Sometimes?”
Meryl frowns. “In what sense?”
Wolfwood shrugs. “Y’know, just… achy joints, stiff muscles, that kinda thing. Sometimes, if it’s bad enough, my skin starts to hurt.”
“Do you know why?” she asks. Nicholas scoffs in response.
“No. Nothin’s wrong. I’m perfectly healthy, as far as I’m aware.”
“What triggers it?” Vash says, “The pain, I mean.”
“Uh… I dunno, I never really thought about it. Goin’ too long without a proper rest, I guess? Taking the…” Wolfwood frowns, making the motion of tossing back an ampoule. “That can make it worse, sometimes. Hard to figure out if it’s the actual drug causing the problem or just some kind of echo of whatever made me take it in the first place, though. Being cold tends to make it worse, too.”
“Any other symptoms?” Vash asks, like Wolfwood isn’t just fucking batshit—like he’s actually entertaining the thought that there’s a reason why he hurts that isn’t just that he’s lost his fucking marbles.
“I guess it gets kinda hard to focus when it’s particularly bad…? I get tired quicker? I don’t know, Spikey, when all the tests came back clean I stopped keeping track of stuff that might be symptoms.”
“When did this start happening?” Vash questions.
“Sometime after the Eye took me, I don’t know. Around the time they started lettin’ me out on my own.” Wolfwood is starting to feel overwhelmed by the questions, although he’s sure Vash means well. “What does it matter, anyways? I already told you, there’s nothing actually wrong. I already checked.”
Vash frowns. “There’s a condition that was well documented before the Big Fall that presents like that,” he explains, “Chronic pain, fatigue, trouble focusing, along with negative tests for the things that might normally cause those symptoms, like an autoimmune disorder. There weren’t any medical tests that could identify it. It’s called fibromyalgia.”
Wolfwood blinks. “Well, if there’s no test to identify it, how’d they know it was even a thing?”
“Similar symptoms across a large group of people who were otherwise healthy,” he responds. “A lot of people who got diagnosed with it reported that it started after a traumatic injury, or prolonged emotional distress…”
“How does that even work?” Wolfwood interrupts, “What, you just get fucked up one day, and suddenly your life sucks and no one believes you because you don’t have proof?”
“It’s a nerve issue,” Vash explains. “You get used to a certain amount of pain, and your brain starts to translate pain signals from your nerves incorrectly. So any pain that might be a minor inconvenience for someone else becomes debilitating for someone with fibromyalgia.”
Well. Wolfwood did certainly get used to being in agony all the time after Conrad got his wrinkly mitts on him.
The explanation leaves him reeling a bit, if he’s being honest. Luckily, Meryl is there to pick up the conversation while he processes all of this.
“How do you know all of this, anyways?” Meryl asks, looking at Vash in awe.
“Oh! Brad has fibromyalgia,” he says, “Said he saw a bunch of doctors who all said there was nothing wrong before he joined SEEDs.”
“I thought you said it was well documented, though?”
“It was,” Vash nods, “but, y’know. Some people have to see proof to believe that kind of thing. A lot of doctors assumed that people were lying to get a hold of expensive pain medication.”
“Ugh,” Meryl scoffs.
“Yeah,” Vash agrees.
A moment of silence passes between the three of them.
“The long and short of it,” Vash says, clapping his hands together with a smile, “is that you're not crazy, and we believe you. Okay?”
Wolfwood just looks at him, stunned. Had it really been that simple, all this time? God, he’d already wanted to wring Conrad’s neck, but he hopes the fucker dies a slow, painful death for all the turmoil he’d put Nicholas through over something so easily explained.
“Okay,” he agrees.
“Great! Now, Meryl, can you grab a couple of the hot water bottles?” Vash says, “You said the cold makes it worse, right? We can’t solve the bed problem tonight, but we can do a couple things to make it more bearable for now. Next time we visit Home, Brad may be able to give you some advice on how he manages the pain, too.”
“Oh, God,” Wolfwood groans, “Do not make me ask that guy for advice. I’d sooner jump off a damn cliff.”
Vash and Meryl both laugh, and as Meryl hops up to look through their supplies, Wolfwood turns a soft gaze on Vash.
“Hey,” he says, drawing the blond’s attention, “Thanks, Spikey.”
Vash smiles back at him. “I’m just glad I could help.”
Wolfwood is still in plenty of pain, but knowing that, if nothing else, Vash and Meryl believe him… well, it takes some of the edge off.