It was burning again.
Vincent grunted through his teeth but continued working, polishing the barrel of a rifle he had all but assembled. As the searing agony grew his polishing grew faster, stronger, until he was almost gasping in pain and exertion. Finally, he gave in, dropping the gun barrel to the table top and grasping his left arm just above the metal of his prosthetic, gripping it as if trying to cut off circulation. He watched as his golden metal fingers began to twitch spasmodically and stifled a grunt with every spasm.
And then the real pain came.
It felt as if his left forearm was being burned in acid. Not his prosthetic, but a real arm, a real flesh and blood arm being burned slowly until there was nothing left of it. He didn't want to scream in front of his employees. He wanted to look up and see if any of them had noticed his discomfort, but he couldn't seem to make his body do anything but hunch on his stool, shivering with the strain it took to control the agony. He couldn't breathe. If he did, he knew he would start screaming. A drop of something, a tear or sweat perhaps, ran down the bridge of his nose and he was suddenly in the grips of a stomach wrenching nausea. He had to breathe. Closing his eyes, he took a breath through his clenched teeth. And exhaled with a garbled exclamation of pain.
"Vincent!"
"Mr. Valentine! Are you all right?"
There were suddenly half a dozen people around him. He couldn't tell if they'd just appeared or been approaching cautiously all the time. It didn't matter. The world was tipping and then he found himself with his cheek on the cold cement of the floor. It felt good and he pushed his prosthetic against the floor as if it could benefit from the cool surface.
"I'm going up to get Elira! Somebody call the hospital!"
Vincent wanted to say 'no!' No hospitals, no doctors. But all that came out of his mouth was a whimpering groan. Elira. Where was Elira?
It wasn't a minute more before she was kneeling in front of him, her face worried, her hands touching his face. "Vincent! Vincent, what's wrong?"
It felt as if she was shouting to him from a million miles away. Forcing himself to focus on his wife's presence, he made himself answer her, his voice choked and cracking. "My arm..."
"He was clutching his left arm earlier, Mrs. Valentine, if that helps."
And then her fingers were prying his away from his arm. He hadn't even realized that he was still holding on. A moment later she was calling for a knife.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, Vincent," he heard her saying. "I know this is one of your favorite shirts."
He next heard the sound of material ripping. She was cutting through the seams of his sleeve until he could feel the coolness of the air on his skin.
There was a moment where Vincent found himself watching her as she looked at his arm in puzzlement. He knew she was confused because there was no wound; he had been confused the first time, too. What caused this much pain without a wound? And then her fingers were massaging his arm above the prosthetic. He cried out once at the pain this caused, but then found himself gasping in a little relief as her the pressure from her fingers brought him some respite from the pain.
"Does this hurt?" Elira asked him.
"No," he answered quickly, unrolling a little from the hunched ball he'd ended up as on the floor. "It feels better."
"What happened?"
Vincent shook his head, making himself sit up and finding that he was still shivering a little. "Nothing happened. It's just a pain that comes and goes."
Elira took her fingers from his arm and placed her hands on her hips, one on each side of her protruding belly. "You mean, you've had this pain before?"
The tone of her voice alerted Vincent to danger. Not thrilled with the prospect of having an argument with Elira in front of their employees, he said, "I've got to change my shirt."
Elira sighed a little through her nose and nodded, gesturing at the staircase that led up to their apartment. Vincent walked toward it but waited until Elira had started up before he followed her. One of his greatest fears was that she would fall down these cement stairs one day, thereby terminating her pregnancy and likely causing great damage to herself. So he always walked behind her when she ascended and walked in front when she descended just to be there to catch her if she did miss her footing.
Once in the apartment, however, Elira moved so that she was walking behind him as if to prevent an escape attempt. Vincent walked into the bedroom they shared and, ridding himself of his ripped shirt, opened the closet to look for a black button-down he also liked. Elira watched him silently for a moment before crossing to sit on the bed.
"Vincent," she said as she sat, "please tell me you haven't been having these pains in your arm long."
Vincent sighed, turning to face his wife as he did up the buttons on his shirt. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to lie to her. "Three weeks, perhaps."
Elira frowned slightly. "Why haven't you say anything?"
He shrugged, turning to look at himself in the full-length mirror beside the closet. "I didn't want to worry you." That, at least, was the truth. "These pains have been fairly infrequent, and it's never been that severe before." A lie.
"I want you to go see a doctor."
Vincent turned quickly to look at his wife. "No," he said quickly. "No doctors."
"Vincent..."
Vincent turned back to the mirror. No doctors. No examination table. No people shuffling around him in their lab coats. Please, no...
"So what are you going to do? Just leave it?"
Vincent ran a hand through his hair, suddenly missing his bandanna as a few strands fell into his face. What was he going to do? How many times had he asked himself this same question? If he just left it, would it go away on its own? That was becoming more and more unlikely as time passed. So...what was he going to do? He sighed, staring blankly at the reflection of his left arm in the mirror. He didn't move as he saw Elira move from the bed to come and stand behind him. After a moment, she wrapped her arms around him and clasped her hands together in front of him. A little of the tension in his body seeped away at her touch.
Elira held him tighter. "Vincent," she began quietly, "why don't I make a deal with you?"
Vincent glanced at the reflection of her face peeking out from around his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.
Elira smiled slightly. "The deal is this: if I let you off the hook today about going to the doctor, you have to promise me you'll go if it happens again. All right?"
When Vincent didn't answer right away, Elira unclasped her hands and began to tickle him. Vincent squirmed around quickly in her arms to face her. His expression had turned into one of mock indignation. "What have I said..." he started, moving his right hand to tickle her side. "...about tickling?"
"Oh, come on!" Elira laughed, wiggling out of his reach. "You're such a stick-in-the-mud sometimes!"
Vincent felt a smile struggle for domination over his features. He took a step toward Elira and she let out a small shriek, laughing and running to the doorway of their bedroom. Vincent took another step and she ducked out into the hall, still giggling quietly. With a shake of his head, he followed silently until he'd stepped into the hall as well. Elira grinned for a moment before trying to dash away from him. He caught up with her easily and she laughed as he held her to him. After a moment, she turned around and kissed him soundly on the mouth. It didn't take much for the kiss to become a long, lingering one, and Elira snuggled into Vincent's chest afterwards. "I love you," she murmured. Vincent kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.
After a few seconds, Elira stirred. "But, Vincent," she began softly, "about those pains in your arm...will you promise me that you'll go to the doctor if you feel them again?"
Vincent sighed. "We'll see."
"Vincent..."
Vincent hesitated for a moment before replying quietly, "I promise."
Elira lifted her head and kissed his chin gently. "Thank you." She then moved out of his embrace. "Now, we'd better get back down to the forge before our employees start coming up here to see what's happened to us."
Vincent nodded and followed her to the stairwell. Once there, however, he moved to precede her down the stone steps.
And as he walked, Vincent swore to himself that he wouldn't let her see another one of his episodic pains. He didn't know what was causing them, but he knew already that he didn't want to have a doctor anywhere near his prosthetic arm. Hiding the truth from Elira was as good as lying to her, Vincent realized, but there was no other way.
No other way. So, he'd have to figure this out on his own.
He sighed quietly to himself as he stepped into the warmth of the forge, and welcomed the distraction work would be from his dilemma.