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Peter Vincent thinks people see what they want to (smokingmagician) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2013-09-29 23:58:00

Entry tags:

peter vincent, robin hood

Who: Peter Vincent, Robin Hood
What: Words are knives and often leave scars, the fear of falling apart, and truth be told, I never was yours.
Where: The complex roof
When: Nearly midnight, Sunday, September 29, 2013
Warnings: Peter’s foul mouth
Status: Closed, Ongoing

Peter slumped rather gracelessly against the low wall enclosing the roof. It was quiet up there, the skies clear, and it was easy to just sit there and ignore that the world was burning down everywhere else. Alcohol helped too, of course. He frowned at his half empty flask, taking a quick draught before tucking it back into his jacket. He wanted more, wanted to let loose and get completely hammered. But no, bad idea. Every time he let the cracks show, it only made people upset. He shouldn’t care. Most of them, he didn’t. But his mum, Cas, Amy, Ginger, Kenzi, Rose, Robin… there were people who cared. Whom he cared about. He couldn't let them down again. He pulled out his cigarettes instead, lighting one up and watching the smoke stream out in front of him.

Despair was a funny thing; for Peter, it meant stability. He set himself drifting, resigned himself to going through the motions, and ended up more productive, calmer, able to talk to people without dissolving into a pathetic mess. Busking in the park, because no one gave a shit that he was losing the last strains of pride and joy in the work that had been his first love… but hey, he was performing wasn’t he? And when the apocalypse started getting more active, he did what little he was let in on - checking the weapons supply, setting up hidden caches. Thirty decades of dedicated study into the paranormal, until he was the one scholars went to for answers, well that meant nothing now here, because it was common knowledge that he was half-mad and not trustworthy. Trying to fight for anything more, that would be a waste of time. Because really, with what he’d done, how low he’d fallen, he should take what he could get and feel grateful for it.

So he kept drifting. Faked it when he needed to, drank when he couldn’t, and look at that, here he was functioning again. He kept his head down, did what he could, snarked at people, comforted his friends when they showed their own fears, telling them that it would all be okay, that they’d pull through. He’d almost lost it again, a few times, first with Charley, then when Robin and Cas both volunteered for Death's sacrifices. But especially, the day his mother showed up. He let the cracks show again because he couldn’t, he just couldn’t let her find out what a wreck he was. Not her, not his mother. Panic and shock weighed down and he’d slipped under the weight of it. Then he’d drawn himself up, put on the strongest facade he could and he’d kept it on since then. He’d had it right in the beginning: “Illusion, remember? People see what they want to see.” He wasn’t broken unless he let himself be, after all.

And then... for the first time in months, it had edged into being more than just a facade, just for a moment. The other night, joking with Cas, trying to convince his mum about the stupid fucking wish-baubles being real… He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled like that, the last time he’d really laughed. But it had been so fleeting. Little flickers of emotion breaking the isolation. He didn’t dare hope. Hope made him breakable.

In fact, that was what had him up here on the roof tonight. Because tomorrow... no, today, he realized, checking his watch. 12:07 AM September 30th. He pulled out his flask again, gulping down the Midori until it was emptied. It didn't help. Fucking apocalypse; he couldn't even have the luxury of getting drunk enough to block out how much it hurt because if something happened, he had to be sober enough to not be a liability. But fuck... four months now. And today would have marked one year. So much for hope and taking chances.

Peter squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his jaw, holding in the little broken cry threatening to come out. His fists pressed white-knuckled against the concrete, his forgotten cigarette smoldering away next to him. He really wasn't coming back.

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smokingmagician
2013-10-01 07:35 am UTC (link)

The door to the stairwell swung open suddenly, sending a jolt of adrenaline through Peter that broke through the haze of depression sinking over him. Most of the lights from the city were out by this time of night, and at first he couldn't tell who it was that came tearing out and across to the wall. The person stopped there, leaning against the wall like it was the only thing holding them up.

Peter held still, squeezing his eyes shut briefly with a silent sigh. Maybe they'd go away again. He'd come up here to be alone, so he could be miserable and miss Andrew where no one else had to see. Maybe they'd leave again without noticing him huddled there. But they didn't move, except, after a moment, to lean more heavily against the wall. Then the man spoke, quietly to himself, and while Peter couldn't make out the words, he did recognize the voice. Robin's mutinous tone told him all he needed to know about why his friend had come bursting out onto the roof. He wondered if he should just stay put and keep his mouth shut, give Robin the illusion of privacy.

He felt guilty for the thought, though. Robin had been an amazing friend to him. It was not as though Robin didn't have problems of his own to worry about, yet time and time again he'd made time for Peter, keeping him company, looking after him, offering advice. He didn't only do so for Peter either, but for Cas, Much, Mal, for everyone here really. And he and Becker had put everything on the line to get them that damn ring. Robin was constantly trying to save the world, to look after everyone else, and it was never going to be enough - not by any fault of Robin's, but it was the truth. Nothing was ever going to be enough. But while Peter didn't dare let himself hope, Robin kept fighting. He admired the younger man for that. And Peter didn't want to let his friends face all this alone. Maybe it wouldn't last, but he could stand with them, by them.

So he steeled himself, scrubbed a hand over his face to obscure any telltale signs that he'd been about to breakdown, and hoped the dark of the night would hide the rest. Then he quietly pushed himself up, moved cautiously closer to his friend. "Robin?" he called softly, not wanting to startle him.

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robinofthehood
2013-10-01 08:46 am UTC (link)

Robin tensed at the sound of the voice, hand dropping to the dagger that hung from his belt, drawing it before he'd even thought about it. It was testament to how lost in his thoughts he was that he hadn't been aware anyone else was on the roof until they spoke. It took him a moment to register just who the voice belonged to, which was around the same time his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he recognised who it was by sight. He let out a slow breath, lowering his hand back to his side and sliding the dagger back in to its scabbard. "Peter," he returned in recognition, wondering how long his friend had been up here, and if he'd heard him speak his pitiful questions in to the darkness. "Are you okay?" He questioned instead. It was often that his friend came up here with good reason, usually to drink, and often to drink away any number of sorrows.

Realistically he knew he should just leave. Go back downstairs and climb in to bed and let Marian hold him until the nightmares that plagued him were chased away. But he couldn't. He knew it was ridiculous but he felt if he was inside right now he wouldn't be able to breathe. Sometimes he really missed the forest. For all that he had missed Locksley when he had been living in Sherwood, there was a lot to be said for the limitless sky above you, the cool air on your skin, and nothing but the sound of the night around you as you let sleep take you.

It wasn't as though he was the only one who had lost something, recently. Sherwood wasn't the only thing a demon had seen fit to destroy. And Kon and Clark, others too, were putting in huge amounts of effort to save an endless number of people. What right did he truly have to feel this level of sorrow at losing something he could hardly lay a claim to anyway? Over 800 years had passed since his time, since he had lived there. In peoples minds these days he was a legend, to most nothing more than a myth, someone who's existence they questioned. What he thought had little impact here or anywhere else, any more.

He turned so his back was to the wall, leaning against it as he considered the man now standing near him. There was every chance Peter would simply want to be alone. Why else would he have come to the roof this time of night? The last thing he needed were jumpy outlaws turning daggers on him, literally or otherwise.

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