[Wolfwood wouldn't say as much, as least not now, but...that moment where he'd been bleeding out on the ground and realized the drugs weren't working had been petrifying. He simply does not remember what it feels like to heal from a wound naturally, much less mortal ones. Sometimes he'd get pecked on the fingers by the chicks as a child, or scuff his knees and things like that. But it was never serious. Never anything that held a candle to the torture that the Eye put him through. Ever since they molded him into their creation, he had to learn to live his life differently. Dangerously.

He's staring now at one of his hands, slowly curling and uncurling it into a fist, until he feels Vash reach out and touch him. And while normally he might flinch back or shove his hand away, he...doesn't. He doesn't look, but he doesn't make him move either.

Wolfwood looks tense. Unsure.]

I've got four left. After that...

[He shakes his head.]

I'm used to having scars. But this kind of shit sends a message.

[Only then does he look at Vash, letting his hand relax in his lap. There's a flicker of something in his expression there, just for a moment. It might just be gratitude.]

I look better because I don't just slap metal and screws in and call it good. [...] ...And I'd better look good with the weight I lug around.