Nothing's Gonna Change My World (Pavitr Prabhakar x Reader)

Limitless Undying Love (shines around me like a million suns)

Preface: This chapter, in addition to continued discussion of Reader's trauma around the attempted kidnapping/probable SA, briefly mentions a character succumbing to cancer. Please be mindful when reading this story if these topics are triggering for you.

The nightmares start on the second night.

Pavitr's sense yanks him out of a dead sleep by clawing across his face, the acidic sting raising the downy hairs on the nape of his neck.

"I said NO! I don't w-wanna go with you, let GO of me!"

Oh no.

Pavitr tunes his ear to the upstairs apartment. There's no signs of footsteps, no tip-offs of a struggle. Only the gentle groans of a wood bedframe, the frum-frum of bedsheets rustling, thrashing limbs. Exasperated, he flops back onto the pillows with a sigh and gives his temples a good rub, catching the neon glint of his watch that read 03:17. He figured there's nothing that can be done until-

"help help h-h-HELP me help me"

His head feels crispy and cold, full of TV static so itchy and sharp, like ice shards thawing. The vague voice of his sense says listen listen listen and he does but he can't-

"spiderman help ME help m-me help spiderman help me help spiderman please no"

The shards go crack, crack, crack from all of the pain and it hurts hurts hurts him in his chest. You're hurting and the hurt is dribbling onto him drip, drip, drip through the floorboards. Pavitr hurts too, he wants to tear out his hair, and he wants to do nothing more but follow your voice through your window and help you, but he can't and the pain keeps drip-drip-dripping and-

"spiderman PLEASE!"

The sandal collides with the ceiling, leaves a footprint in the sheet rock that Pavitr knows will come out of his security deposit. He catches his breath, feels his pulse slow against his sweaty palm. He casts his hearing out once more, and hears only labored breathing. The drip slows, and you rouse, your sock feet sinking into the carpet. He tracks your steps across his ceiling, towards what must be your bathroom, and listens for the hiss of the tap.

Technically he helped, right? Pavitr stifles a snort, and calls it a win in his book. He's fucking Spiderman, he always wins. He rolls over onto his stomach, taking his pillow with him. Hopefully, tomorrow is a better night.

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Tomorrow was not a better night. Nor was the next one, the night after, or any of the other nights that followed. It was the same damn show every night - you have nightmare, you scream, Pavitr wakes up, Pavitr either finds a way to wake you up or waits it out, Pavitr feels like shit at work the next morning, which is a problem because then he has to try, and he hates trying.

After the seventh day in a row, Pavitr resolves to engage in a little neighborly intervention. He pops down to the shops and lets his conscience be his guide. After 2 hours of meandering, he lands on a tin of Valerian root tea, two cozy-looking pairs of fuzzy socks (they make them with moisturizer now, apparently?), and almost grabs an admittedly adorable stuffed dog in a Spider-man costume, but decides it's a bit too on the nose, and instead selects one with a bandana next to it. Pavitr writes out what he hopes is a nice, supportive note that doesn't tip you off to who wrote it, and leaves all of this at your front door. He raises his hand to knock, and considers if he should introduce himself, but sadly concludes it's better that you don't meet him as Pavitr.

You come home from work to find a conspicuously placed package hanging from your doorknob. You warily bring the plastic bag inside and open the unaddressed envelope, finding a handwritten note in bold, loopy script inside that reads:

"Hey there neighbor,

It sounds like you're going through a tough time right now. Don't worry, I'm not one to judge, I'm not mad, but I can tell whatever it is that's giving you such awful nightmares must be making you very stressed.

Let's be clear, I'm not doing this to be passive-aggressive. That wouldn't help anything. But I do want you to know that whatever it is that's messing with your sleep, you're not alone. No one is alone, and people like you, dammit.

I leave you with these in hopes that they help you find better dreams. And know that whatever it is you're fighting, we're rooting for you."

You don't know what to think. Whether to be embarrassed your neighbors heard your screaming, worried that you were disturbing their sleep, scared that they really were mad, or grateful for their understanding. Your cheeks burn, and you douse them in the soft fur of the stuffed dog. That was a pretty nice touch.

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