BUT MY HEART IS WILD, AND MY BONES ARE STEEL

[webdesigned]

CHARACTERS: peter parker & YOU
DATE: 3/22 - 3/23
WARNINGS: violence?? possibly... some cannibalism attempts, jfc
SUMMARY: turns out that a mild coma didn't actually keep the virus from progressing, and now that he's out and about at nearly 7 weeks infected, things are a bit bad. time to catch a spider. easy, right?



SANS.

( when he finally figured out his infected state, his only option seemed to be isolation. it was not a great plan, admittedly. he hadn't had a lot of time to make it, even if he'd promised Keith to make preparations just in case. he couldn't hole up in quarantine, not when he was a threat to anyone that hazarded going too close, so that meant more extreme measures.

one little slip was all it took to devastate. Stiles had been proof of that. Peter refused to let there be another slip.

the plan was simple. lock himself away where the infected numbers were high, to keep anyone from finding him. steal enough barbiturates to keep himself under as... well, as long as he needed to be. he had not been concerned with an endgame. it could have worked, maybe, if he'd trusted someone else to be close enough to monitor him. the dispenser he'd made did its job, but he'd discounted exactly how much of the drug he'd need to even drag him under. he hadn't taken enough to last even a week.

when he woke, he was not the same person that had been willing to render himself comatose to protect everyone in Woodhurst.

he was no longer thinking; his thoughts were burned away in the fever of his hunger. nothing else mattered. so when he crawled from the sewers, he doesn't exactly seem like someone wise to get particularly close to. there's already blood on his hands, his pupils so wide in the dark his eyes almost seem black — and if that weren't eerie enough, the first hint at a sound makes him react, and not simply by running. that'd be too easy, wouldn't it?

no, crawling along the wall suits him just fine, at a rather alarming speed. it seems rife for a horror movie, only it's reality, and it is a reality that is coming in a little too quickly. the sound that had caught his attention was a woman walking to her car, unaware of the danger lingering in the dark. leaping from a wall to land on her is enough to knock her to the ground and knock her out in one fell swoop, which might be just as well. she won't have to feel his teeth sinking into her arm. )

REIKA.

( turns out, when someone capable of crawling up walls and throwing cars starts a frenzy in the middle of downtown, it draws attention. especially when the count of injuries is climbing and climbing fast. the screams, the cries for help, the few people left on the streets fleeing for safety seems to have little effect on him anymore. if anything it seems to set him off, throwing whatever he can reach at the nearest sound. which is a bit of a problem, when he can lift just about any car he comes across.

he doesn't exactly hear the threat coming. no, he feels it, a shiver down his spine, hairs standing on end. even with the knowledge it's coming, he doesn't bother to stop chasing the next mark he's after. he crawls after his fleeing target, skittering along the wall with demented focus. even as the terrified civilian screams for help and stumbles into the street. it doesn't matter how much he eats anymore, he's still hungry — and he seems to have decided on his next meal. )

NOT SO SUPER AFTER ALL. (OTA)

( spider-man is actually only so amazing. he can crawl up walls and lift incredible weights, yet he's far from invincible. he might have done well to remember that a lot sooner, chances were a lot of people would have been saved a lot of pain.

still, he's been chased and pursued, and by individuals strong enough to actually keep up with him. more than keep up, really. his brain was burned into thoughtless fever, and his actions were stuck on instinct, instead of forethought. Audentes wasn't the only thing he had to worry about, either, as Woodhurst was determined to fight back as well. for example, getting hit by that pest control van had definitely not been expected. who could really expect that kind of irony?

he's hidden in the dark, pressed against a wall and nearly dazed. he definitely looks as if he's in need of help, though considering the smudges of blood on his face and hands... you might not want to risk it. )

HAISE.

( there are only two things that matter to him at the moment. trying to sate the endless hunger that only seems to be amplified the more he tries to silence it, and evading those that have intent on keeping him from it. evading violently, if need be. he's somehow managed to avoid capture this long, and that's in no small part from how capable he is at slipping away, and hearing who might be after him before he can even see them.

still, he's running on madness, not sense. not to mention Peter had been wise enough to take off the webslingers that allowed him to move through the air so quickly, just in case. hard to say if he'd even have the sense to use them, now, though if he could it was certainly for the best he didn't have the option. he's not as fast as he could be and that leaves him open to intervention.

even though he's not particularly inclined toward the idea.

he's distracted, trying to beat down a heavy metal barricade that was hiding something to eat. the screams inside only seemed to make him work more feverishly, like a panicked promise if he could just manage to get inside. terrifyingly, he's doing a damned good job beating the metal in with his fists — unless someone can stop him. )

Comments

[figureitout]

[ it isn't a particularly reassuring reaction, if it can even be called one — yet Stiles thinks he can't give up just because his voice doesn't seem to be reaching him, at least not enough to shake him away from the forced blanket of calm Olivia has enveloped him in. he thinks back to the city hall, to the young boy moving mindlessly through glass to get to him and Asher... the way how in the end, all it had taken was one of them touching him to bring him back.

he still remembers him crying out apologies afterwards.

maybe this situation isn't ideal, maybe most people would have given up hope, maybe Stiles isn't the likeliest candidate to hold on to something like hope in the first place... but it is less hoping and more the single-minded stubborn refusal to give up that carries him forward two more steps. from his pocket, he takes out a syringe. ]

I'm sorry about before. Trying to sedate you without telling you. I promise... I won't do that anymore. I won't do that at all. [ the sound of the syringe shattering on cold ground is a familiar one; he doesn't pause, doesn't focus on anyone's reaction to that. all he cares about is the person he's talking to, right now. ]

It's alright. You're not going to hurt anyone anymore. [ you don't have to hurt anyone anymore, would be a more accurate way of saying it — he knows just how much this must be killing him. being here... unable to stop.

when he's close enough, Stiles reaches out and places his hand on Peter's shoulder. slow, steady. unafraid. ]

[webdesigned]

( 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. )

[figureitout]

[ his hand remains steady as he waits.

it is a game of russian roulette, for all his belief, watching and waiting and hoping that the stillness is a sign of awareness and not something else, that the slight shift in his breathing is good instead of a warning.

when Peter speaks, voice rough from disuse, Stiles has to bite down on his lower lip to keep the words from spilling over, anything and everything that he's wanted to say since Peter left him in their room —

(I don't blame you and I'm sorry and I know you feel terrible for all of this but it's not just you, it isn't, don't think it is and I don't care what you've done, it doesn't change anything, I still —)

instead of saying anything, he just takes that half a step that separates them, uses his hand to pull Peter closer, to hug him close, tight enough that anyone not made to withstand getting hit by a car would probably think it uncomfortable. he doesn't know how long he clings to him, the time both too long and not long enough at once, before he loosens his grip enough to be able to look at Peter. ]

I know. [ the Bristol virus... isn't something you can stop on your own. ] I've got ALASTAIR-issued sedatives, [ he explains, quietly, quickly, ] that should be enough to knock you out for long enough to get you to a safe location. You'll be in a medically-induced coma until the cure is found. It'll work, I promise.

[ this time... Peter won't have to be afraid of breaking free of it. and as much as the thought of him in a coma is something Stiles would rather not imagine, not even like this... there's no other choice. (no other choice he's willing to accept, anyway.) ]

[webdesigned]

( technically, since Peter tested his ability to survive bouncing off the hood of a moving motor vehicle not too long ago, the hug probably should be enough to hurt. if it does, though, he pays no mind to it. a little pain would be a simple price to pay, in return for the clarity the embrace gives him. uncomfortable clarity, really, when his brain is forced to catch up to everything he's done and not been cognizant of — and recall who he hurt with every awareness in the world, too.

his reluctance to touch Stiles seems to fade almost immediately in the crushing anchor of the embrace. he doesn't have the presence of mind to fight the comfort because of all the reasons he doesn't deserve it. instead he returns it, even though his hands are still shaking from the place they find purchase on Stiles' back. he doesn't want to let go, letting a heavy head fall on Stiles' shoulder, almost like he's running out of strength to hold it up on his own.

it's more a matter of the proximity to a familiar heartbeat that always seems to calm him, whether he deserves to feel calm or not.

Stiles pulls back to explain and Peter doesn't bother lifting his head, simply nodding into the fabric against Stiles' shoulder. he's none too intimidated by the prospect of a medically induced coma, mostly because he already knows it works... as long as someone is there to monitor and make sure he doesn't run out of the medication necessary to stay that way. it's another stupid mistake to hang on his consecience — another way the destruction around him and stale blood on his tongue is his fault, and one he won't easily forget.

he doesn't question the plan. he doesn't argue. Stiles wouldn't suggest if it wouldn't work — Peter is well aware of that.

it feels more painful to let go than anything else he's endured his entire rampage, but he has to. the longer they waste time, the more likely something could go wrong. even with a woman fully capable of forcing himself into an unnatural calm, Peter can't trust that's enough to stop him when Stiles is so close. he offers his arm, grimacing past the burn of salt in his eyes. )

I'm sorry. ( it's such a waste of words, sorry doesn't begin to describe the clawing misery blooming inside of him with the ready knowledge of what he's done. sorry doesn't fix a shattered arm, nor running away when Stiles had been so desperate to protect him and all of Woodhurst from what he was turning into. he was so much more than simply sorry, but he has no time to articulate it properly. honestly it was possible he couldn't articulate it properly even if he had an entire lifetime.

this time, Stiles won't have to worry about putting him under. with the last strands of control Peter has left, he's determined to make sure nothing happens. as if that could possibly change what already has. )

[figureitout]

[ hugging Peter is like remembering how to breathe.

his hands grip on to Peter's shirt, his head leans against his; it would be all too easy, to simply stay like this, let the seconds turn into minutes into hours. he holds on and breathes; in, out. steadying his heartbeat — it would be impossible for him not to know the effect it has on Peter, now, after all the weeks they've spent together, when all that ever seemed to make Peter capable of falling asleep was the heartbeat next to him.

still — the moment can't last forever, and reality tugs at him all too soon, reminding him of all that's at stake here. Peter pulls away, and Stiles doesn't resist; instead, he looks at Peter's arm, the pale skin, the veins that are easily visible. it... won't be hard, this time.

it shouldn't be.

slowly, he reaches to his pocket, pulls out another syringe, identical to the one he let shatter on the ground. the metal tip looks oddly clinical, out of place here in the city, even as he places it against Peter's arm, the cold needle meeting cold skin.

all that the apology gains from him is a shake of his head. ] Shut up, [ he mutters, because just like Peter can't stop feeling guilty about this, he can't find any ounce of himself to put any of the blame on Peter, either. he doesn't need apologies — all he needs is for Peter to be safe. back with him, and safe.

his right hand still holding the syringe, he reaches out with his left, cups Peter's face, runs his thumb along his jawline, like tracing a memory. without saying anything more, he leans in and presses a kiss to his lips — a kiss that is supposed to be brief, a reassurance, but this, too, is easy to get lost in; so the kiss lingers... he lingers.

just like the taste of blood in his mouth as he pulls away and plunges the syringe into Peter's arm, emptying the sedative into his vein. ]

[webdesigned]

( before that night, it might have been possible to convince Peter that simply holding on to each other might have saved them from the worst of it. how many times did Stiles bring him back from the ferocious edge of the virus without either of them noticing? probably more times than he could count, and yet all those successes seemed to fade to ash with the memory of the time it failed.

not because that touch had really failed, it had worked each and every time; it was just that Peter had kept pulling away from it. it seemed that pulling away was just about what he was best at.

the laugh he coughs out at the rebuke is alarmingly out of place, in the moment, yet it's not completely bitter and miserable. it's very much like Stiles, isn't it, to just ignore the offering like it didn't need to be made in the first place? it did, and it does, and the laugh fades about a second after it escapes.

the hint of metal at his skin isn't what makes him open his eyes again, it's the touch at his jaw. his eyes are red and the black of his pupils is so blown wide that it's hard to tell they have any color at all, yet no matter how much the touch stings, he makes no move to reject it. it's gentle, tender; an antithesis to the moment in their dorm, which is exactly why he doesn't deserve it.

the kiss keeps him from breathing out a sob — even in a few moments of clarity, it's too much to remember. it's still there, disguised between the press of lips and the shared breath. Stiles will know, more than likely, but nobody else will. the uncanny pressure of sedative invading his bloodstream gets a slight hitch of his breath, but he doesn't resist it. instead, in the last few seconds he has, Peter even breaks the rules he's barely started to set about protecting Stiles from himself.

his free hand lands over the heartbeat that always seems to calm him, and that's his last memory before the drugs force him back into darkness. the steady pound of a heartbeat that feels a little too much like home. )