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When Nathan squats down, his hips click. This has always been a thing; it's never really hurt, but Audrey used to wince at the sound of his screaming joints.
"I know you hate this-" She'd start, only for them both to smile and roll their eyes because he did hate it, being reminded of his numb, malfunctioning body. People were always commanding him to go to the doctor, but they worried too much. Even before the Troubles came, Nathan bounced back quickly.
He used to, anyway. Thought he did.
Nathan really, really, hates to admit when he's wrong, but right now he'd confess to anything.
He lies on the floor at the foot of his bed, clothes in a crumpled heap beside him. His jaw is set, teeth gritted to stop the moan in his throat from escaping. Two codeine - stolen from Audrey's drawer, he never had any use for opiates in the house - have skimmed very little off the top. If he moves he'll throw up, and the ache only burrows further down his outstretched leg. It hurts so much, and there's no-one around to help.
It only now occurs to him, lying here, that every suggestion he 'get that checked out' or 'rest up' wasn't condescension, people taking it upon themselves to lecture and impose. The thought stings, because he's the one trapped in this complicated body, he should know how it feels better than anyone. How else to take every 'slow down', but as an affront?
He can't exactly go back and decide to start listening.
How much time passes is unclear, but the floor remains a comfort for now. It's the only surface that seems to dull the throb, solid and supportive against his groaning back. The spasms rip a void down his right side, cavernous and sickly and creeping ever outwards. He can crawl around, if needed, and stagger to the bathroom, but any question of work tomorrow, or even wearing pants for that matter, brings the nauseous pulse into sharper relief. He whines, and twists around for a position where the agony is less.
Eventually sleep takes over, and he's adrift in the blessed nothing of darkness. Pain yawns off in the distance, closer than he's used to but more in line with his hazy memories of the thing. Nathan's dreams are tangled, shadowy, urgent voices and melting walls. Scenes of his childhood turn into the precinct, the harbour, a vision of bleeding out in Audrey's arms. He wakes up soaked in sweat.
Nathan can't remember the last time he called out of work, so he's sure to have some sick days squirrelled away. He never bothered to learn the system, he doesn't make the schedules. He's not even sure who he reports to, now he's the chief... if not Stan, the man should at least have a clue.
The phone rings and it rings, then there's a click and he's through.
"Haven P.D.?" He doesn't recognise the voice down the line - female, young, unfamiliar to his fuzzy morning brain.
"Um." Pause. "Hi." He manages this much, forgetting the statement he'd tried out in his head. "Could I speak to Stan?"
Now it's her turn to pause. He tries again.
"Is Stan there?"
"Oh, sorry, Chief Wuornos. Stan's not in yet. Can I be of any use, instead?"
"I don't know." Nathan cringes at how stupid he sounds. He closes his eyes, and takes a shuddering breath. "Yes. I'm going to need the day off."
Heavy exhale. Lungs burning.
"Woah." The girl on the other end is, to his ear, giggling. "Excuse me, I just didn't know you could get sick! I'll let Stan know when he arrives. And rest up, okay, because it's gotta be serious if you're calling out!"
"It's nothing. Just an old injury. Thanks."
Nathan hangs up quickly, before he has to explain himself any further.
Without work, the emptiness of the day stretches out before him. During the Troubles, even when Nathan was off the clock he'd be drawn back in - for this reason he has a sparse apartment, very few books, and very few hobbies. Not that he's up to much in his current state, he supposes, heat still pulsing in his back like a relentless drumbeat. Every second he spends awake comes with an agonising awareness. His joints smart in a way he's sure they never have, his skin seems to bruise at the slightest touch. Even the floor against his back hurts, now. Bracing one arm against the small bedside table, Nathan heaves himself to his feet.
He can't recall a day off that isn't coloured by Audrey, so he thinks back; what did they do when she was sick? He'd cared for her a few times, and he sorts through the memories. Flu, gunshot wounds, a sprained ankle. That last time she could barely make it out of bed, and had harnessed her invalid status - Nathan was manipulated into a rom-com marathon, he recalls with a shiver. They'd had takeout in bed, and when the painkillers wore off and she'd begun to shift uncomfortably, he'd stroked her hair. He remembers how it felt, rolling a few strands between the pads of his fingers.
Nathan's eyes mist at the memory, and he imagines the press of her hands against his back. Strong hands, drawing out his pain as if by magic.
He rolls over with a groan. A distraction is required - movies, takeout, whatever. Maybe he'll even find out he likes days off. Then, tomorrow morning, he'll drag himself back to work.
He gets to pick the movies this time, which is exciting at first but they all seem distant and greyed out and about 15 hours long. The takeout goes even worse - nothing wrong with Taco Tuesday, at least no worse than The Gull's other culinary offerings, but his stomach flips and he's back on the floor, vomiting and crying before very long. Nathan has no idea what this is, what's happening to him. It's been two weeks since his sensation returned, and though feeling everything has certainly been overwhelming, the agony is new.
Maybe you're having trouble adjusting, a voice in his head whispers - after all, even Audrey's touch had been too much for Nathan at first. Maybe this is that on a larger scale, sensory input flooding in and scrambling his brain. This is a crescendo, a crashing wave before the tide draws back out.
Gloria calls at some point, Nathan can't say when for sure. The light in his bedroom has a silvery quality, and he's lying on his stomach staring at the wall. It takes several rings before he makes it to the hall stand.
"Hi hon." She starts in immediately, concern oozing from her voice. "I heard from Stan who heard from Receptionist Katie that, apparently, you're not feeling too hot, and I thought to myself, that's not like Nathan - you alive over there?"
He smiles, despite himself, at her breathless run-on sentences.
"I'm okay, Gloria." Words find him easier this time. "Just in a bit of pain. Nothing I can't handle."
She hmphs, and Nathan realises she won't be palmed off so easily. He ventures further.
"My neuropathy." Thank God she can't see the heat rising on his cheeks, thank God she cuts him off before he has to explain any more.
"Right. Yes. That's gotta be quite a change. A whole lot of postponed suffering, I'd imagine. Now, I'd hate to say I told you so-"
"But you told me so." He agrees.
"I did."
They both wait.
"And I think-"
"I suppose you want me to go to the doctor."
"And I get what I want, Nathan, I know you know that. Can you drive yourself?"
He tests his mobility, taking a few socked steps across the room.
"..."
"I thought not. I'll be over in ten."
The line clicks off, and Nathan can't get on the ground fast enough. He feels bad roping Gloria into this considering that, yes, she did tell him so - she was there for all these old wounds, now coming back to bite him in the ass. He'd been diligent about them at first, sitting through endless rounds of stitches and even wearing a sling on his bad arm. It all just started to fall apart, sometime around... Audrey. All of a sudden, he'd had something to risk his life for. Audrey was the sun around which he revolved, and for her, Nathan would get shot a hundred times. He'd fight a bear, jump in front of a car, all with a smile on his face. Whatever it took to keep her alive.
You don't know your limits. Jess had once said, gently bandaging a wrist he hadn't known was broken. You have to be more careful.
He knows them now, and prays this system crash is temporary. If a doctor concurs, he'll try his best to believe.