Who: Peter Vincent What: Contemplating the nature of Lawrence, life, and the Seal Where: The wreckage of the complex When: Thursday afternoon, October 17, 2013 Warnings: Peter's foul mouth and his poor conflicted feels Status: Another stupidly long narrative.
He'd already done all he could to salvage what was left of the complex's armory and the things that he'd kept in his rooms. Much of it, the weapons, precious artifacts, and worst of all, his beloved and carefully tended library, was in ruins. Rewriting the inventory for the things that hadn't been destroyed or damaged in the explosion was going to take a while. Thankfully, there was a large amount of his collection hadn't been stored at the complex at all, and the rental storage unit had gone untouched. There were also the little stockpiles Jo and he had stashed all over the city, just in case. It would take time to take stock of everything again, but for the purposes of arming the hunters and fighting the Lucifer and his forces, they were probably still okay. Not all was lost.
Still, standing in the shattered and burnt remains of his home was beyond depressing. Peter kicked at a blackened shelf board on the floor, flipping it over. Sighing, he looked around the room, his face worn and blank. He didn't know what to do now. It shouldn't matter so much, but... this had been his home, for a year and a half. The little flat that he'd snagged on arrival, that he'd slowly built up his new life in... Here, he'd studied magic and monsters, been a drunken wreck and wrestled with his personal demons. He'd kissed Andrew for the first time in this room, had Thanksgiving dinner with dear friends from a dozen different universes, curled up on the couch with friends and family he'd thought long gone. He'd fallen in love here, and lost that love, gained hope and lost it.
So much life had happened in this surreal world over one short year and a half, some of it more good than he'd ever dreamed of having, some of it the stuff of his deepest nightmares, and everywhere in between. The flat shouldn't matter so much, except that he'd grown quite attached to it and all the precious memories it played the stage for. This flat was the first place he'd really considered a home, and not just the place he was staying for the time being, since his parents died. And now it was in ruins.
At least his family was all alive and mostly well, and many of the people who'd died had been returned to life. The Seal wasn't done with them yet, Peter kept thinking, the bitter thought souring what should be a good thing. It wasn't that he resented them, or wished them dead; quite the opposite. It was just unsettling. He hadn't thought about it last December, really; he'd been too relieved at Andrew's return to even think to question it. But Andrew wasn't here; whatever the Seal had brought him for, it apparently deemed him no longer needed.
This was what he found hard to digest - nothing was ever certain here. The Seal dictated everything. It chose who was permitted - or condemned - to stay in Lawrence, and who to go home. Those who'd been sent home were sometimes brought back whether they remembered Lawrence or not. If someone died, and the Seal wasn't done with them, they returned, while others were shunted to this world's heaven or hell. It seemed like a blessing, that they could have lost loved ones returned to them. But really, it was a hidden knife, waiting to dig deep and twist. How could they live their lives with any sense of ease? How could anyone mourn their losses in a place like this? How did one move on and find any inner peace?
Andrew could still return. He had before; he'd been one of the first displaced in Lawrence at one time. But he hadn't remembered that on his return, when Peter had first met him. That could happen again. Or he would never come back. Or he would come back and for him, it would be like he'd never left, while for Peter so much had happened that things could not be the same. No matter what happened, he'd lost that chance, that particular delirious optimism being with Andrew had given him, once upon a time. He'd lost Andrew.
Then there was his mother. There was just so much separating them now. Her heart was already broken from the loss of his father. She hid it well, but he could see it. That wound was old for him; he'd learned long ago how to handle that absence. But for her it was fresh, and she might see him again if he was brought here, or she might be separated from her husband forever. And Peter couldn't imagine his presence was much comfort to her, with how changed their relationship was. He'd regained his mother; she had lost her husband, and her little boy. It would only break her heart further to know him now, but no less than it would if he tried to shut her out. Either way, she was as lost and hurt as he, and he couldn't save her from it.
As he'd made his life here before, he'd worked out somehow that Lawrence meant a second chance. Maybe it was because of the double-standardized rhetoric that was tossed around so much here, maybe it was just the sort of mood he'd been in at the time. It wasn't a second chance, not in the way they all thought of it. It was unpredictability - complete and all-encompassing. Even in a normal average world, life was often said to be uncertain, but Lawrence took uncertainty to new levels. Good guys weren't so good, bad guys not so bad, and the shades of grey had their own shades of grey. Death had no meaning and every meaning. Lives could be tossed around and rewritten, put out and turned back on like a lantern. Nothing meant anything because nothing ever stuck, and it was maddening and exhausting and Peter could only keep coasting for so long, because even trying to roll with the punches just left him, quite literally, standing in the smoking ruins of his life.