A/N: This is short and...mostly pointless. Just wanted to play around in Nick's head after last episode. That man's determination is just impressive, what can I say?
Worth
It won't work; it'll hurt. It could kill him. Or, as his friends so endearingly put it, it will most likely kill him. These warnings fall on deaf ears. As soon as the option is presented to him, Nick is pushing forward, all determination, eager to see this finished, the curse broken. The anger is still there, latent, coloring his actions, but that is ebbed in favor of a stronger emotion.
Something like hope, more than he's had in months. There is a chance, however slim, to return the woman he loves to herself.
If that isn't worth dying for he isn't certain what is.
The air in the Spice Shop is more tense then he remembers it. Various ingredients are strewn about the table, Rosalee plucking them as needed with a surety that almost hides the slight quiver in her hand. The impassive mask almost concealing the note of worry in her eyes. They have no other choice but this seems so...final. As if there's no way out for any of them, no secret weapon hidden in his Aunt's trailer to save them in the eleventh hour...
Just a last ditch, imperfect, effort, dependent entirely on them. The little fuchsbau takes a deep breath, pursing her lips before adding a foul smelling liquid to the concoction. The milky liquid flares angrily, the color shifting immediately to an angry red. Nick leans against the shelf behind him, feeling the weight of the last few days hanging around his shoulders. He's exhausted, well and properly. This needs to end. It just needs to end...
Monroe paces the length of the shop, alternately wringing his hands and rubbing the back of his neck, rambling on about nothing particular. "Nick, man, seriously. This is...serious."
The Grimm smiles, "I understand that."
"Like...really serious. You could die."
"Do you have to keep using that word?"
"Expire, croak, pass on; I've got a thousand more if you'd prefer any of those," Monroe resumes his pacing glancing between the other man and the viscous liquid in front of Rosalee. He shakes his head, runs a hand over his face. The level of concern is touching, no doubt, but it doesn't move him. Nick crosses his arms heavily over his chest, watching the liquid shift in color again.
He could die if he drinks that. He probably will. God knows they've warned him enough.
The simple fact of the matter is he doesn't care. He has no particular desire to die but...
If it means saving Juliette he couldn't give a damn about the odds.
"You're sure about this? Absolutely sure?"
He's too tired to smile properly, is only to manage the barest twitch of his lips, the sentiment never managing to reach his eyes as he nods, "Yeah. I'm sure."
If she comes back to him, it's worth it. He's willing to die for that.
The scene unfolds in broken clips, like a glitchy video or a particularly bad dream. He remembers the feel of the liquid (thick, halfway solid), the taste (burnt, not quite right, acidic) as it slinks down his throat. That is perfectly clear. He remembers smiling, confident, glancing towards his friends for confirmation.
There's only blinding pain after that. Nick feels his body convulse entirely on it's own, aching as if the ligaments in his arms and legs have been pulled too tight. His vision swims, every shape bleeding into another until it's nothing more than a blur of mismatched colors. Juliette's face is replaced by a strange blend of whites and reds, blending seamlessly with the more dominant colors of the room. Everything is more dull, more distant, as if he's staring at it through a carnival mirror. The harder he tries to focus the more distant the image becomes. As if the effort is causing the muscles in his eyes to atrophy, to decay, to wither...
It has his hands balling into fists, nails biting hard enough at his palms to leave bloody little crescents. It's easier to close his eyes again, willing down the irrational fear. He's need to remain calm; this will pass; this is going to pass. This is going to work...
The Grimm snarls, clutching his stomach, falling to his knees. There are hands grasping at him, concerned, desperate, but they inevitably draw back. There's a weight on his shoulder, soft, curious, but it's impossible to make out beyond that.
"Nick...!"
The words only just reach him, far away through the pain suddenly wracking his body. His time as a Grimm has largely deadened him to the sensation but this...this is something else entirely. It's not unlike fingers digging into his skull, directly stimulating every nerve in his body. He chokes, trying to take in air only to find it impossible. Shallow gasps are manageable only if he focuses, anything beyond that is out of the question. Nick's vision greys around the edges, the spice shop, his friend's faces, everything fading to monochrome. There's only the pain in his head, slowly suffocating...
And the feel of a small, delicate, hand clutching his own. The fingers are cool against his super heated skin, offering a small measure of comfort. Just enough to keep him sane. The other hand squeezes, fingers twining around his wrist. Offering clumsy comfort out of habit more than any awareness of her actions. Juliette bends over him, shielding him, the faintest note of horror coloring her voice.
"What did you do to him?"
There's no answer and if there is he doesn't catch it. His friends will stare on, stoney faced, content with the decision he's made. They understand; they can respect his choice.
Juliette does not have that luxury. Green eyes stare down at him, colored now by a hideous amalgamation of fear, confusion, and something else he can't quite place. Betrayal, maybe. It'd certainly be suited to their situation. Emotions that have become too common for the traditionally confident woman. There's a silent plea there, begging him to tell her, let her understand. Just let her try to understand.
He should have. He should have tried harder. He should have helped her...
The Grimm grunts, curling in on himself, the muscles in his body contracting, flexing and pulling dangerously tight. He feels something tear, hears himself yell...all as if from a distance. It's safer. He doesn't imagine he'd survive this any other way. Hell, he isn't certain he'll survive this now.
Everything burns. Everything hurts. The shop fades away entirely, replaced with a comfortable, hollow, blackness. His breath comes in shallower spurts, every wheezing gasp sending a fresh wave of pain over his senses.
"Nick..."
It's a mercy (or punishment, he can't quite tell) that he can still make out her voice.
"Nick...please..."
She's always been so alive, so certain. He'll never be used to hearing her so...tentative, unsure of herself. The delicate woman brushes the tips of her fingers over his cheeks, painting all too familiar patterns over his skin. The same touches she'd used so many times after he'd awoken, drenched in cool sweat, haunted by things he couldn't share with her; trying to console him even if she didn't understand why. Even if she doesn't understand now.
"Just come back. Please, come back."
Her touch is so cool against his skin; her words halfway desperate, following him into that strange void. The simple fact of the matter is he's dying (not breathing, muscles tearing, his nervous system panicking, attempting to manage too much pain). Everything says this is going to kill him.
Some thing are worth the risk. She's worth it.
She'll never understand just how desperately he means that, how he's meant it since her coma. The woman pulls him to her, holding his head to her shoulder. Even the smallest movement makes him ache (duller now, more a memory of the sensations than actual pain) but he goes willingly, tucking his head beneath her chin.
"Nick," there's more determination there now, an order in her tone more than pleading. So much like the woman he'd loved. The woman he'd been so eager to die for. "Come back."
For her, he's willing to try. Something else tears, there's more pain and oxygen becomes more difficult to manage but it's worth it. If he can return to her, it's worth it.