Thread: Don't turn on the lights Who: Chris Argent, Peter Hale Where: Peter's hotel room When: Sunday, August 26th, the deep darkness shortly before dawn What: The aftermath of the alpha pack thread Rating: TBD, but probably NSFW for gory retellings and more? Warnings: Language, possible violence, angst galore.
Chris' life was over. His father's words when Victoria was bitten kept echoing over and over in his head. 'Your wife is already dead. That thing over there is just a cocoon waiting to hatch.' Was that all he was? A cocoon waiting to hatch? Was he already dead? He didn't feel dead inside. Well, he did, but not physically. His little girl, his precious Allison, was dead. Not just dead. Those monsters had desecrated her body and pickled her heart in a bloody jar. They'd even denied him the dignity of a body to bury. He hadn't even begun to comprehend the enormity of what had happened tonight, or the fact that he was now alone in the world, after all the sacrifices he had done to try and protect his family.
But his frail human body had much more pressing issues that were currently demanding his attention. The bite on his side felt like it was on fire, the gash on his arm from the alpha's claws throbbed, he was queasy, had chills and a bone breaking fever. He had dismissed the Hunters watching his house in the nick of time, after reassuring them the wounds on his arm were from claws. He somehow neglected to mention the ragged bite on his side.
No sooner had the last of the men left when he felt violently ill and had his first episode of throwing up a revolting thick goo. Not black, but bright purple. He wasn't stupid. He knew what that meant. He also knew if his men found him like that, weak, sick, puking wolfsbane, they would think the worst.
The worst, or the truth? he thought to himself as he huddled behind the couch. Not having any family to turn to, and no one he dared trust with this, he had chosen instead to go to the one place in all of Beacon Hills where nobody would ever come looking for him. Peter Hale's lair was a far cry from the abandoned train and bus depots his nephew favored. Of course he would choose to hole up in a hotel room under a fake name. There was nothing left to do but wait, and try not to hurl on the nice carpeting. He had already left a puddle next to the dumpsters behind the parking garage.
He heard steps approaching, and had an inkling it might be Peter. He was sure he was being completely paranoid, because they were nowhere near the full moon so he couldn't possibly be shifting, but he could have sworn he was hearing better. No, it had to be all in his mind. God, he had to be out of his mind, coming to Peter Hale for help. But he really didn't want to spend his last moments on earth being chased down like a beast by his own hunters. Not until he at least arranged a proper funeral for... No, best not to think about that, he told himself, holding his head in his hands and pressing like he wanted to crush his own skull like a walnut.
When the door to the room finally opened, Chris opened his eyes to a slit. "Don't turn on the light," he said in a raspy, uneven voice.