( of all things to earn a reaction, the crunch of glass breaking on the ground seems to be an odd one. surely Peter has heard plenty of glass breaking in his rampage across Woodhurst. somehow, though, the sounds earns the most visceral reaction yet, a wince that hardly makes sense when the glass isn't anywhere near him. it's not the threat that gets to him, it's the memory of when he last heard it. even through a dense blanket of eerie calm, that reminder is enough to disturb him.
it might not be quite enough to gain a full moment of clarity, but it's perhaps enough to hint there's a part of him still inside the device of destruction, one that can remember who he was enough to be disturbed by the reminders of what he's already done. it's unlikely that any part of him felt much guilt when he was totally lost to the fever burning through his body. why would he?
it's hard, to claw back from the dark, when it's so completely taken over — for most of his madness, there'd been no ability to fight back or try to stop it, there hadn't been enough awareness for it. almost as if he was still lost to the drugs he'd used to force himself under. even as he was roaming the streets and cutting a path of destruction. he wasn't present enough to fight back until Maya had found him, and now...
the anchor of a touch on his arm is something to reach for, an anchor, like a hand to reach for as he drowned. it's not instant, the way it had been in their dorm room. it takes a long breath, even though his dark eyes turn to the point of contact and the reaction is slowed, but it's there — the way his shoulders break into a slanted line, the way his breathing falls from forcibly even to something far less. one emotion cancels the other, and not even intense calm is enough to keep him fully calm when it's paired with the awareness of everything he's responsible for. )
Stiles, ( it's the first thing he's said in awhile, and the syllables feel almost sluggish on his tongue. there's so much more he wants to say, things he needs to ask, apologies he has to make, there's just not time for it. his hands are forcibly wrenched into fists, like he can't let himself reach out, not when he remembers what happened the last time he did. ) You have to. I can't— I can't stop it.
( there's no part of him even remotely blames Stiles for trying to sedate him. look at everything that's happened since? Stiles was trying to stop it, and... )
Please.( he knows for a fact he won't be able to fight it for long. he's seen how quickly his clarity fades. it has to stop now, while there's still a chance to protect everyone left. he doesn't have any way to stop himself, and he realizes how much it is to ask, but he has no other choice. )
no subject
it might not be quite enough to gain a full moment of clarity, but it's perhaps enough to hint there's a part of him still inside the device of destruction, one that can remember who he was enough to be disturbed by the reminders of what he's already done. it's unlikely that any part of him felt much guilt when he was totally lost to the fever burning through his body. why would he?
it's hard, to claw back from the dark, when it's so completely taken over — for most of his madness, there'd been no ability to fight back or try to stop it, there hadn't been enough awareness for it. almost as if he was still lost to the drugs he'd used to force himself under. even as he was roaming the streets and cutting a path of destruction. he wasn't present enough to fight back until Maya had found him, and now...
the anchor of a touch on his arm is something to reach for, an anchor, like a hand to reach for as he drowned. it's not instant, the way it had been in their dorm room. it takes a long breath, even though his dark eyes turn to the point of contact and the reaction is slowed, but it's there — the way his shoulders break into a slanted line, the way his breathing falls from forcibly even to something far less. one emotion cancels the other, and not even intense calm is enough to keep him fully calm when it's paired with the awareness of everything he's responsible for. )
Stiles, ( it's the first thing he's said in awhile, and the syllables feel almost sluggish on his tongue. there's so much more he wants to say, things he needs to ask, apologies he has to make, there's just not time for it. his hands are forcibly wrenched into fists, like he can't let himself reach out, not when he remembers what happened the last time he did. ) You have to. I can't— I can't stop it.
( there's no part of him even remotely blames Stiles for trying to sedate him. look at everything that's happened since? Stiles was trying to stop it, and... )
Please. ( he knows for a fact he won't be able to fight it for long. he's seen how quickly his clarity fades. it has to stop now, while there's still a chance to protect everyone left. he doesn't have any way to stop himself, and he realizes how much it is to ask, but he has no other choice. )