Who: Peter Vincent What: Having good dreams turn into nightmares and trying to work through them. Where: Peter’s flat at the complex When: Evening August 4th into early morning, August 5, 2013 Warnings: Peter’s foul mouth, mentions of violence. Status: Narrative, Closed.
Peter’s memory of returning home was not at all coherent. He remembered messaging Robin, asking for help getting to the medbay, almost two weeks ago now. His hands had been shaking so hard he could hardly type the message out. He could vaguely recall Dr. Tam’s frown as he went over Peter’s symptoms, and getting some slight relief and sleep in the medbay.
Then the following afternoon... Robin holding onto him in the elevator because he could barely stand and the motion was making him more nauseated. Standing and swaying in his room while his friend tried to clear the dusty mess enough for him to lie down. The next few days after that were a haze of fever-dreams, interspersed with occasional snatches of lucid memories of Castiel or Robin sitting with him, or Amy’s concerned face, Marguerite’s voice. He’d been pretty out of it though, for most of that week, and the memories were fuzzy at best.
He didn’t even remember the first drink after the forced sabbatical ended. He’d been only sort of semi-lucid when he’d stumbled into his kitchen - he thought he’d been seeking a glass of water and found liquor in his fridge. The clarity and relief it brought was mind-blowing. And people wondered why he kept drinking. From there, he was still a slightly shaky mess... but he was home. Robin and Cas, aside from sitting with him through the DTs, had been kind enough to clean the flat up. He didn’t want to think about how much dust had gathered - or worse, the state of his refrigerator - following the seven weeks of the flat being devoid of people. It was all cleared away by the time he was fully aware again.
But he’d still been hiding. Partly he was still trying to recuperate; he still felt ill and exhausted all the time. No surprise there, really; withdrawal aside, sleep and eating never came easily, and even less so now. Also, he was at a complete loss as to what to say to anyone. He had nothing to say to anyone. Nothing new or interesting or happy, at any rate. Trying to express his remorse, his misery... no one wanted to hear that shit. That was just depressing, and it wasn’t something anyone could do anything about anyways. So he’d kept quiet, for the most part.
And so, even though finally coming home probably should have been a large leap towards recovery, here Peter was, tucked into his bed, nursing a glass of Midori and chewing on the ice cubes as he tried not to slip into sleep. He’d had nightmares all last night and really didn’t fancy a repeat just yet, no matter how desperately he needed the rest. His laptop was settled on the mattress next to him, his hand resting on the keys. He had it open to the boards, but he wasn’t sure he could handle talking to anyone tonight. It seemed like every time he tried lately, the conversations never went anywhere.
Ginger going on a date had been enough to startle him out of his silence briefly - since when had she started seeing other people? It wasn’t that he was angry or upset that his ex was finding some happiness - quite the contrary. It was a bit of a relief to be honest, seeing her start to move on finally, connecting to other people in Lawrence. It was just... how long had he been out of the loop? But thinking about it... the past few weeks he’d been a complete recluse, and before that.... it had been weeks, months even, since he’d had just a conversation with anyone that wasn’t weighed down. He wished he hadn’t said anything to her though. It seemed all he’d done was irritate and disappoint her with his reaction. He hadn’t meant to, it was just hard for him to muster up a smile or positivity about anything.
He was so sick of this, of being exhausted by everything. He wanted to go back to what he’d had last fall. He missed his friends, missed the modicum of peace he’d had for a time. It had felt like a beginning, like he could make himself into someone worthwhile. It was around this time last year that he’d met Andrew. He’d been so happy for a while there, so confident, even though he’d been scared shitless that things would go wrong.
And then Rose’s post today had really hit home. He wanted to talk to her but... given just who he looked like, he always felt nervous speaking to her about that particular subject. He didn’t want to make things any harder for her. But he understood how she felt, because he was feeling it too, stronger now than ever. He’d taken a chance on Andrew, and it hadn’t worked out, and it hurt so bad it felt like dying. No, he didn’t think it was wrong to miss the one you lost. But he too found himself holding people at arms length. Maybe it was better that way; they didn’t have to deal with him, and he wouldn’t get hurt by them disappearing eventually. That had been his MO for years, and here, he’d been reminded why. He’d known when he and Andrew started, on some level, that it wouldn’t last. He’d been sure he would fuck it all up somehow. But he’d wanted him so bad, he’d taken the chance... and it was destroying him now.
He clunked his glass down on the nightstand, long fingers coming up to press against his eyelids. Thinking about Andrew hurt. Trying not to think about him... that hurt more. He let out a long slow breath, shutting the laptop and setting it aside on a chair, then looking back over at the empty half of the bed. The pillow on that side still had a small hollow in it. He leaned over, laying half over into that space on the bed where Andrew should be and closing his eyes. The sheets were cool, empty, and smelled like laundry detergent. He frowned, trying to picture in his head, how it should be... Andrew had to get up early for work, so he would be asleep already, by this time of night. He’d lie not so quietly in the bed next to Peter - he was a restless sleeper. And eventually Peter would close his laptop of book or whatever, set them aside, and curl up close to his lover, drifting into sleep himself.
The little fantasy was somewhat soothing, and he found himself drifting into thoughts of others. Him and Andrew curled up on the couch together, watching a movie. There’d be popcorn, of course. And Andrew would be absolutely enraptured by whatever silly movie they had on, but Peter would be watching him, drinking in the sight. Or something else, them being out with friends, enjoying one of the peaceful days in Lawrence.
He leaned against the wall, a mischievous little smile on his face as he waited. The others were a bit behind him, walking in a group, but he’d run on ahead. Had to secure them a table at the diner, and the line was already out the door. But never mind that, food wasn’t important, because Andrew was at the head of the group, talking to Rose and Claudia over his shoulder. Black shirt and dirty blond hair appeared around the corner, and it was easy to dart a hand out and grab his sleeve, tugging him closer to Peter.
The others disappeared as though they’d never been there, but that didn’t matter either, because Andrew was there, lithe body warm against Peter’s, the pair of them hiding at the back of the restaurant like a couple of teenagers sneaking out. Andrew had looked startled at the first touch, but he’d already slipped on a smile as Peter leaned in to kiss him. Andrew kissed back and Peter swore he tasted heaven. Warm, gentle happiness filled him, and he hummed and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. He missed this, missed Andrew. But no, focus on it now, while he had it, or it’ll slip away again...
He pulled away from the kiss, going lower on Andrew’s jaw. He was lost to everything else, soaking in his lover’s presence, the calm and the warmth and the simple good of it. The familiar sound of Andrew’s breath, the soft little laugh, feeling warm hands on his shoulders, and there was nothing else, he wanted nothing else, just this.
He could feel raised marks on Andrew’s skin, under his mouth, pinprick scars on his neck. Spike, his memory supplied, Spike’s teeth, vampire teeth, from years ago now, but still marked. And that was all it took - Peter felt a flash of deepest rage; all he could think was HIS. He felt his teeth shifting, and faster than he could blink, faster than Andrew could cry out, he sank his fangs deep into Andrew’s neck, right over the old marks.
Peter startled awake, choking on his heart in his throat. He pushed himself up, sitting back against the headboard, trying to breathe. But his lungs felt locked up, and he couldn’t get his head clear - oh god, the fangs, too many teeth, too sharp, moving in his mouth... but they weren’t. Only blunt, human teeth, solid in his gums. He set his jaw, forcing himself to breathe as slow and deep as he could through his nose. God he hated those phantom feelings...
Phantom feelings... Andrew! The feel of the dream-Andrew was already fading into that soft focus that dreams were relegated to upon waking. Peter shut his eyes, shoved back the prickly feeling in his mouth, tried to focus... he wanted to hold onto the good part, cling to his lover in the only way he could now... but it was no good. Kisses and hands and smiles scattered like leaves in his head, disappearing into foggy black, and he was left choking on a sob. His knees drew up, arms wrapping tight around his torso.
He couldn’t keep going like this. It was too much for anyone to take, and he was never great at dealing with losses and pain. It was like he was being constantly hounded by Murphy’s Law and he didn’t know how to stop it. All of this shit going on, it would have been bad enough on its own, let alone the way everything kept layering and compounding.
Andrew was gone. His sanity was holding on by a thread. The two things he’d always prided himself on - his talent for magic and his expertise of the occult - were utterly useless now; he had no future with his magic and nothing to apply his knowledge too. He was dragging the others back, giving his friends more to worry about when all of them had more than enough to be getting on with. The Apocalypse wouldn’t wait for him to pull himself together, so neither could they. And on top of it all he just felt so ill and tired and alone...
It was too much. He was watching everything he’d worked for slip out of his grasp no matter how hard he tried to hold onto them... not unlike his dream just now. The good parts faded away and disappeared, leaving jagged edges and ends to keep digging into the wounds.
“God, Andrew...” he whispered between breaths, pressing his palms against his eyes. “This is fucking stupid. I’m curled up in our own bed and still feel fucking homesick.” He growled softly, letting his hands drop limply onto the mattress and grimacing at the wall. “How does that even work?” He fell silent again. He hadn’t felt so lost and helpless in years, not since he was a teenager, grieving and alone and half doubting his sanity.
That thought made his breath still a moment. He hadn’t even realised, at first just how similar he felt then to now. But really... he’d done all this before. Lost the most important people - person, this time - in his life. Vampires tearing his world to shreds while he could only watch. Trying to cope, trying to reconnect, and failing miserably, watching people try and fail to help him. Because what could anyone do? How could anyone help him when half the issue was his own miserable shit, locked away in his own thick skull.
Why would anyone want to?
He cringed at that, weight settling in his stomach with that lingering guilt that he’d fostered ever since his uncle first brushed aside his claim about vampires. He shouldn’t rely on others for help him, he knew that. People cared, they sympathized, but it was rare anyone could truly understand. And no one truly wanted - or deserved - the responsibility of trying to help him. It wasn’t fair to put that on anyone, and he was so fucked up, he doubted any of it really was fixable. It certainly wasn’t anything his friends could just wave their hands and it would all go away. He wondered how many people in Lawrence thought he’d completely lost it now? That he’d finally snapped?
What if he had finally snapped?
For a moment, that little question left him paralyzed, haunted. But just as quickly, his face hardened again. No. His hand tightened into a fist, and he gritted his teeth. No, he was NOT mental. People had called him that before, more than once. But he’d been right all along; he hadn’t just imagined a vampire killing his parents. He wasn’t a madman. He just wasn’t.
But there would always be people who thought that of him. And there was an apocalypse to stop. He needed be able to take care of himself, to pull his own weight. Not to prove anything, but simply because he needed to.
That aside... what happened if Cas left, or Amy? Rose or Charley or Ginger? Was he going to just keep falling apart? Keep leaning on the people he cared about, too fucked up to offer them support in return, until finally they left too? He couldn’t handle that.
But the problem there was not that he would lose them again. The problem was that he’d let himself be too open with people here, let them in too close. Foolish to do so; it was a fucking apocalypse. Of course they were going to lose people, and not just to the fight. He’d made friends here and seen those friendships tear themselves apart. He’d let Andrew in, let himself fall in love, let himself hope... and he’d lost it all.
Sighing, he looked out the bedroom window. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept for, but it was still pitch black outside. He settled back into the bed again, an odd, discontented peace settling over him as he worked through his realization. Once upon a time, he’d sneered at Charley for being an idealistic fool, thinking he could take on Jerry and win. Peter had been ready to run, but he’d taken a chance instead, and followed that stupid brave kid into a den full of vampires. He thought, upon surviving, that he’d been right to do so, that it had been the beginning of an actual chance of being the sort of man he’d wished he could be.
He saw it better now - he hadn’t survived, and he hadn’t truly changed. He’d just set himself up for an even bigger fall. He couldn’t make that mistake again. It would kill him. Everything he’d ever worked for really had been for nothing, and he was right back to where he’d been thirty years ago.
He couldn’t leave himself so vulnerable as he had this past year. If it meant he couldn’t be the better man he’d naively thought he had a chance at being, fine - he knew he was absolute shit at being that guy anyways. Look what had happened when he’d tried. He’d nearly gotten everyone killed. And If it meant he didn’t have a chance at true happiness, tough. He’d learned the hard way long ago that happiness was a myth in the real world. He’d just let himself believe in the fairy tale too much.
Things would be better this way, he was sure. He had to put all of this aside. Letting people in, opening up, trusting people... he should not and could not keep doing that. It didn’t help anyone, not them, and not him. He would wrestle with his internal demons as he should have been - by himself, with aid from the only thing he could count on as a reliable comfort. He reached for the half empty glass of Midori on the nightstand. Back to status quo.