|Peter Vincent thinks people see what they want to (smokingmagician) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2012-12-03 04:07:00
|Entry tags:||andrew wells, ginger, peter vincent|
Who: Peter Vincent, Ginger, Andrew Wells
What: Death by feels. And Demons.
Where: The Complex battlefield
When: Monday, noonish, December 3rd 2012
Warnings: Foul language, blood, character death, and ALL THE ANGST EVER
Status: Closed, complete.
Peter hadn’t wanted to fight. As he’d said to Charley, months and months past and an entire dimension away, it was not out of cowardice - he simply knew how to choose his battles. Being an intellectual by nature, it had never been his forte to get directly involved in a fight like this. For the past week, he’d made himself useful where he could, providing knowledge for the newcomers, checking and rechecking the defenses, and managing the armory, but the battlefield was no place for him. He’d had a feeling for a while that eventually, he would be pulled into the fighting, but until he had no other choice, Peter found other ways to help that kept him away from the frontlines.
Then last night, they’d gotten word that every demon for miles around was heading straight for the complex. So Peter had called all the untrained displaced together for the fastest, most thorough lesson possible, just to make sure that no one was in the dark or completely helpless in the coming siege. It was some hours later that he returned to find the flat empty save for a note on the counter in Andrew’s neat handwriting.
"I couldn't just sit here and do nothing. I love you."
Peter knew Andrew was in no condition to be fighting anything. The combination of the nightmares keeping him from getting any rest and the overwhelming guilt had left him completely exhausted. But Andrew wasn’t one to sit by when someone else was in trouble. Under normal circumstances, that was one of the things that made Peter love him so much. Currently, all it was doing was raking ice cold claws of terror through his heart, leaving him pale and shaking with dread. He’d only just found Andrew; he could not lose him. It had only taken him minutes to arm himself with a pair of mismatched daggers and follow his missing lover’s footsteps outside to the battlefield.
The chaos surrounding the complex made it virtually impossible to find anyone. Heart in his throat and entirely too sober to handle this, the only thing that kept Peter moving and fighting his way through the onslaught of demons and other nasty things was the driving thought that he had to find Andrew.
It had been several hours since he’d left the safety of the complex, and they had reached a lull in the fighting for now. Peter was so exhausted that he knew that he couldn’t stop moving now. He could feel blood soaking his shirt, making it stick all along his left side. The wound itself was not too bad; a set of long gashes on the side of his ribcage, courtesy of some kind of monster with very sharp claws. He’d gotten lucky, he knew. It hurt something terrible, little spears of pain shooting all through his torso, but he would live. Still, the pain and blood loss hadn’t helped his stamina any. He just knew as soon as he stopped moving, he was likely to pass out and not move again for another week.
He kept going, right hand pressed against the wound in his side. He was backtracking the way he’d come, hoping to run into the others. Lawrence seemed quieter now than it had in what felt like weeks.
Peter carefully picked his way around a large chunk of rubble, looking ahead to scan this section of street. He froze for a moment, sighing in a combination of aggravation and relief when he saw Ginger was there, several yards down the street. Vaguely, he recalled her saying something about helping out the medbay - maybe she was helping bring in the wounded. He couldn’t fault her for that; everyone had to pitch in if they were going to make it through this. But he still didn’t like the idea of her being outside. She looked okay, if filthy and exhausted. He didn’t look much better himself, he was sure. None of them did. Then Peter’s gaze slid past her and fell on the limp form of a person just beyond her, laying on the sidewalk, not moving.
It took a long moment for it to register that it was Andrew.
Peter’s heart was seizing in his throat as he started to run, his memory jumping back to Jerry’s basement, and Charley laying in the dirt with his stupid jumpsuit afire, not moving. But it would be okay. He had to get to Andrew, to touch him and call his name, and he’d open his eyes and be okay, just like Charley had. That’s the way it would happen. And then he’d kiss Andrew and pull him to his feet, and he would be okay. Peter had found him in time. And then he was going to drag the both of them, Ginger and Andrew, back inside where it was safe, and he’d keep them there while the other hunters and fighters fought off the next wave of monsters.
Except that Ginger was in his way, her small hands strong against his chest, pushing him back. She was distressed, and saying something, but the words weren’t registering. He felt completely cold inside, his breath like lead in his lungs. His gaze was locked on Andrew, he couldn’t understand why she was trying to keep him away. “Fuck off,” he snapped out of reflex, trying to shove her hands away from him so he could move past. “Let me by! Andrew!” Andrew still wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving?
Ginger wasn't sure what to think or feel right now. The battle was, she was pretty sure, mostly over. There was an eerie sort of calm that had seemed to fall over the broken town. Demons, so many demons had been there. Vile things, hiding inside of innocent people who had no choice in the part they were forced to play. Even though she'd gone to camp, there had still been a surreal, fake even, feel to everything people talked about in this world, it still hadn't felt real to her because things had been so calm since she'd gotten there. That sense of calm and false or misplaced fear of what was out there was gone now, replaced by the very real reality of everything she'd been told coming to light. People had spread out, everyone doing their part to help stop the evil here from spreading further than it already had. Now, it was the calm after the storm, which for Ginger, was more unsettling than anything else.
She knew some basic first aid and wasn't so bad at improvising when she needed to, so she had decided to put that to use, knowing there were definitely people that could use it and if she couldn't do anything, she could try to direct someone else to the spot anyone needed the help may be. As she walked through the wrecked little town of Lawrence, her eyes fell on a familiar form a short distance ahead of her. She moved quickly over to him, dropping down next to him, "Oh, God, Andrew..." she breathed, glancing up to see Peter in the distance. Her eyes widened and, despite the fatigue that she felt, Ginger jumped to her feet and rushed towards Peter, "Hey, I'm glad I found you, I've been looking...I was worried," She explained, but when he didn't show any signs of slowing down, she moved again in front of him, her hands on his chest, "Come on, Peter, you're hurt. Let me look at it, we'll get you back to one of the doctors and get you patched up and then--" And then he was done. He saw what she was trying to keep him away from and there would be no stopping him. Not that she wouldn't try. One last ditch effort, she grabbed his wrist, trying to pull him back, "Peter, wait!" but it was too late.
He slipped past Ginger, yanking his wrist free from her fingers. He could smell the blood on the ground before he saw it pooling under Andrew’s body. Almost falling onto his hands and knees, Peter rolled Andrew onto his back as gently as he could, his fingers fishing for a pulse, but his hands were shaking so bad it was no good. His fingers were still stained with his own blood from holding his own wound earlier, and red smeared across Andrew’s skin as Peter turned his lover’s face towards him. Andrew’s eyes were barely open, staring dully out at nothing. Peter cupped his cheek, trying to get Andrew to look at him. “Andrew? Come on, Andrew look at me! Hey! Oh god, Andrew, please,” he couldn’t have stopped the desperate pleading if he tried, but Andrew didn’t answer, didn’t even twitch.
The whole front of his shirt was a mess of blood. Still talking, begging Andrew to open his eyes and talk to him, Peter put a hand over the wound, trying to put pressure on it. “Oh, god, Andrew, hold on, please, Andrew, don’t...” He couldn’t feel any fresh blood coming from the wound. That was good, right? The bleeding had stopped? Don’t shake him, he might be injured elsewhere. Peter couldn’t tell. He wasn’t a doctor, knew fuck all about how to help someone. So he kept pressing down on the stab wound, kept talking, trying to get Andrew to respond somehow, because he had to be okay.
The minutes kept ticking past. He didn’t know for how long. It didn’t matter, really. Time didn’t seem to have any meaning. He hadn’t gotten there quickly enough, or not enough time had passed, because Andrew still didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes all the way and look at Peter. He just laid there, his body lax and unresponsive. Peter choked, stopped pleading, couldn’t speak with his heart lodged in his throat like this. His palm was against Andrew’s cheek, his thumb stroking against Andrew’s cheekbone, and he told himself it was just the chill December air that made his skin feel cold. Or maybe it was Peter’s fingers going numb. And he was so completely still and it was so wrong.
When the thought struck, it was small, so quiet and simple in his head. It was the whisper of sound before an avalanche though, that little thought followed by every muscle in his body tensing up, and the ringing in his ears growing to a full-on roar. His chest locked up so he couldn’t breathe, and his vision swirled and swam and he blinked once slowly and still couldn’t see.
Ginger followed Peter back to the lifeless body of his boyfriend. Even if he didn't want her there, she refused to let him be alone right now. Not like this. She watched him try to find a pulse, to get him to talk, but to no avail. Tears swelled up in her eyes as she listened to him pleading, begging Andrew to wake up, just to say something, do anything to let him know he wasn't gone. Minutes passed and still nothing.
Ginger moved over to stand closer to him, her hand on his shoulder. "Baby...he's gone..." she whispered, her voice choked by the tears she was letting roll freely down her cheeks. "Come on...." she tugged lightly on his shirt. "you don't need to stay here, Peter..." her voice was still barely above a whisper, as she tried to keep it together for his sake.
Peter didn’t even flinch from Ginger’s hand on his shoulder. He felt empty, unable to make sense of his surroundings. He felt full, all his raw emotions churning and fighting and screaming for release. It hurt and he just couldn’t even make sense of it. Too much, too much all at once and he fell back onto his rear, his hands pulling back from the still form in front of him. His arms were stiff and trembling and when his eyes flicked over them he could see the blood all over his hands, trickling down his wrists. It was everywhere, all he could see and smell and this had to be some kind of nightmare, but he couldn’t seem to wake up.
Someone was tugging on his shirt, and this time he flinched, bleating in protest because he couldn’t even begin to form the actual words to scream at them to not fucking touch him. The sound turned into a distressed moan, and his hand came up to clutch his head, tangling in his hair. Blood smeared from his hands across his temples, wet and sticky and matting his hair down. His ears were still ringing and there was white in front of his eyes, blinding him.
The thought that he was having another panic attack drifted across his mind. Where was Andrew? Andrew’s presence always helped him, his voice giving Peter an anchor to cling to. Why wasn’t he here?
’Because he’s gone, that’s why.’
He didn’t want Andrew to be gone. He wanted him, needed him here. Andrew wasn’t here... he wasn’t anywhere now.
That thought stuck fast and shocked his lungs into working again. Gasping for breath, Peter slowly turned over, placing his hands flat against the ground and pushing himself to his feet. Unnoticed tears cut tracks through the blood and grime on his face. He still couldn’t quite see, the street in front of him looked foggy and unfamiliar. He looked back down again. Andrew’s body was still there, still painfully solid and real and not alive, empty now.
He couldn’t do this. This was everything he’d been afraid of, letting Andrew into his heart. He was alone again. He had failed to protect Andrew, out of... what? Being a realist? No. Peter knew that was a flimsy excuse. He was a coward, simple as that. And just like with Ginger, it had cost someone else’s life. It had cost Andrew his life. It had cost Peter everything that he had gained here, the future that he only begun to dare to hope for.
Slowly, Peter turned. Ginger’s concerned, horrified face looked back at him, and he could see her clearly for the first time since spotting Andrew’s body. “Stay with him,” Peter said, his voice flat, void of emotion. Then he pushed past her, shrugging off her hands as he strode out towards the city. Let the demons come. Let them find him. Peter didn’t care anymore. He just knew that he couldn’t stay here, next to the cold shell that was the only thing left of the man who had become his everything.