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He should really take a vial. Wolfwood is hunched over, sat on the side of the cheap motel bed trying to staunch the blood sluggishly flowing from a hole in his thigh. The adrenaline from the fight has long gone, flushed from his body. That’s not a good thing. It means what he needs to do next will hurt more and the comedown from the mix of chemicals he needs to take will be worse than mid fight. Wolfwood is just delaying the inevitable as he holds the glass vial up to the light.
He looks messed up and that’s really why he needs to take the vial. He has to report back to the eye by nightfall in the next town over and attract as little suspicion as possible. A broken nose, bruised face and a very obvious limp isn’t what he needs right now. Letting himself heal naturally isn’t nice but it would make a change. It’ll teach him to not be sloppy. The target was meant to be alone, a lesser man would likely be dead.
Resigned to his fate, Wolfwood shucks off what remains of his shirt and dumps it an a bag alongside the bloodied rag. Standing up, he winces in pain. He’s almost forgot about the bullet still lodged in his leg. Never mind, it’ll be out soon enough.
He runs himself as many cups of water as he can find in the room and lays out his cigarettes, lighter and all the meal bars he has on the room’s table. One benefit of taking a vial outside of a fight is he can take his time opening it and make sure he’s not swallowing glass. Not that it really matters in the long run. Wolfwood knocks back the liquid trying to get it down without tasting it. A taste like battery acid and hospitals still crawls from his throat.
Collapsing backwards onto the bed he lets the process envelop him. Steam rises from his wounds as his cells knit themselves back together. Pain racks through him, consumes him, causes his body to spasm. Without the heat of the battle he feels it all and a short scream escapes from him before he can stifle it. Shit, he’ll have to remember to gag himself next time. He feels the bullet work itself out of his leg and drop onto the floor. That’s good. He really should have dug it out in case it healed inside him. There’s more metal inside Wolfwood’s body than there should be, sometimes he can swear he can hear stray bullets rattling around.
The post vial hangover sets in quickly. Wolfwood sits himself up unsteadily and grabs the first mug of water. He has it downed in seconds and rewards himself by lighting up a cigarette and falling back down on the bed, ash dropping onto the sheets. He’ll leave through the window to avoid an angry inn keeper and losing anymore of his hard-earned money to a cleaning bill for the mess. The first cigarette is smoked down to the filter in under a minute, the second and third follow just as quickly. It’s only when the nicotine has started to settle in him Wolfwood sits back up and cracks open the meal bars. They’re dry, grainy and not really what his body needs. The vials burn through calories at a blinding rate leaving his body craving fats and sugars. He should have prepped better for his he thinks, chugging back more water and forcing down the bars. Rummaging in his jacket he finds a couple of lollipops bought for this kind of occasion but more often handed out to any kid that looks his way.
Inspecting his body in the mirror, all the wounds are healed and his skin looks brand new. He’s covered in blood and grime but that’s nothing a shower and a clean set of clothes can’t solve. The hole in his leg is completely gone. It’s not surprising but it’s hard to acknowledge that the pain was real when there’s literally no proof left on his body.
The shower is cold and quick, harsh in every sense. But it does the job, just like Wolfwood does. He pulls on a fresh set of clothes and inspects himself in the mirror. He’s still not sure he recognises the man that looks back out at him. There’s no connection to what he used to be. He misses his scars at times. Wolfwood can’t even recall how many he would have anymore. The Eye stripped every mark from his body except their own and each vial resets him back to an almost blank canvas again and again. Sometimes he presses a fingernail so hard into the flesh of his palm that it looks like he still has the bite mark from an ornery baby toma he mishandled once. It fades quickly, but it helps Wolfwood remember.
That’s enough, no more feeling sorry for himself. It’s time to go, to report back in, job done. Maybe that’ll be it for a while. No more missions, no more tests and he can hide out somewhere quiet for a few nights. He doubts he’ll be so lucky as gathers up the punisher and his spare clothes that need to be disposed of. For him, it’s never going to end.