Peter had hoped to god he wouldn't wake up today. Better yet - that he would wake up and find that he'd had nothing more than a feverish dream. That there wouldn't be a sting across his knuckles or furrows from bullets along his ribs. If those were gone, then they couldn't have happened. And neither would the rest.
But the first thing he felt upon waking was exactly that, smarting fingers and the scream of fresh wounds. Yet the cloudy, seeping ache that welled out of his chest numbed them both instantly. It curled around his throat and squeezed until bitter sounds emerged. Peter hadn't stopped crying. He'd lost consciousness with wet eyes, and he woke up with fresh tears still springing out and sobs wracking his bones.
He didn't give a fuck that he was back in the military uniform, or what the presence of Harrington on the intercom meant. He didn't care that Brainy was across the room and sleeping the morning away ever so peacefully. He didn't give a shit about how much his side hurt, what the day would bring, what those bastards outside would drag him out of bed for; he did not fucking care.
The only thing Peter was set on doing today was rolling over, pressing his face into the pillow and screaming with all the gusto of a banshee. His fingers curled into the pillowcase as if to tear it. He succeeded regardless of intent, the seams popping open by scant inches as Peter bellowed into the rest of the fabric. The act was so like the morning after Harry had died that he began slamming his fists on the mattress to stamp out that memory, too. Bringing back how close the two incidents had been together - Harry had died hardly two weeks ago - and then coupling up with this...
But Harry had been eaten. It was Peter's fault but he hadn't dealt the final blow. Now, he heard Indy's ribs cracking even in the near silence of dawn. The following squelch, phantom pressure on his heel. He'd meant to kick him down. All he wanted to do was put the man on the ground, steal the ammo for the pistol, and do the noble thing. The right thing. They had brought Jessica here just for this, he was so sure of it - a perfect double meant Peter was the expendable one - and he fucked it up.
His foot had gone through Indy's chest because he was too much of a tool to remember that he was hitting a person and not a Chevrolet. Indy had fallen down. Indy bled. Indy had gurgled on his last words because Peter was a freak of nature and an idiot. And a murderer.
The kicker of it all was that even now, he still didn't understand why.
He shouted at the soldier when the man came to collect him. He demanded answers. He got none. He fought back, tried to punch the man's teeth out but found his wrists twisted in an inescapable grip. Stoic orders were the only consolation Peter got. "Go to the cafeteria. Now. If you keep this up, you will be put on report."
It was more the memory of how easily the nurses whipped out the needles that put Peter in the cafeteria, silent, head down low and hugging his middle as he meandered towards a seat. The breakfast line up was completely ignored. He didn't want to eat. He also didn't want to talk to anyone. His belly shot into this throat when he saw Harvey Dent sitting alone. Peter skittered away from the man and found a table by itself. He melted into the chair, put his arms on the table and buried his face in them. Damp patches blossomed on his sleeves shortly after, hidden under the mess of his bangs.
He couldn't stand one more day. Not one second more. He just wanted the whole world to stop.
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But the first thing he felt upon waking was exactly that, smarting fingers and the scream of fresh wounds. Yet the cloudy, seeping ache that welled out of his chest numbed them both instantly. It curled around his throat and squeezed until bitter sounds emerged. Peter hadn't stopped crying. He'd lost consciousness with wet eyes, and he woke up with fresh tears still springing out and sobs wracking his bones.
He didn't give a fuck that he was back in the military uniform, or what the presence of Harrington on the intercom meant. He didn't care that Brainy was across the room and sleeping the morning away ever so peacefully. He didn't give a shit about how much his side hurt, what the day would bring, what those bastards outside would drag him out of bed for; he did not fucking care.
The only thing Peter was set on doing today was rolling over, pressing his face into the pillow and screaming with all the gusto of a banshee. His fingers curled into the pillowcase as if to tear it. He succeeded regardless of intent, the seams popping open by scant inches as Peter bellowed into the rest of the fabric. The act was so like the morning after Harry had died that he began slamming his fists on the mattress to stamp out that memory, too. Bringing back how close the two incidents had been together - Harry had died hardly two weeks ago - and then coupling up with this...
But Harry had been eaten. It was Peter's fault but he hadn't dealt the final blow. Now, he heard Indy's ribs cracking even in the near silence of dawn. The following squelch, phantom pressure on his heel. He'd meant to kick him down. All he wanted to do was put the man on the ground, steal the ammo for the pistol, and do the noble thing. The right thing. They had brought Jessica here just for this, he was so sure of it - a perfect double meant Peter was the expendable one - and he fucked it up.
His foot had gone through Indy's chest because he was too much of a tool to remember that he was hitting a person and not a Chevrolet. Indy had fallen down. Indy bled. Indy had gurgled on his last words because Peter was a freak of nature and an idiot. And a murderer.
The kicker of it all was that even now, he still didn't understand why.
He shouted at the soldier when the man came to collect him. He demanded answers. He got none. He fought back, tried to punch the man's teeth out but found his wrists twisted in an inescapable grip. Stoic orders were the only consolation Peter got. "Go to the cafeteria. Now. If you keep this up, you will be put on report."
It was more the memory of how easily the nurses whipped out the needles that put Peter in the cafeteria, silent, head down low and hugging his middle as he meandered towards a seat. The breakfast line up was completely ignored. He didn't want to eat. He also didn't want to talk to anyone. His belly shot into this throat when he saw Harvey Dent sitting alone. Peter skittered away from the man and found a table by itself. He melted into the chair, put his arms on the table and buried his face in them. Damp patches blossomed on his sleeves shortly after, hidden under the mess of his bangs.
He couldn't stand one more day. Not one second more. He just wanted the whole world to stop.
[For Jessica.]