I was left with no other option aside from biding my time, waiting with bated breath until a swell of light finally pulled me from my colorless stupor.
If I was sleeping, I did not dream. For hours, all I knew was expansive, perpetual darkness. I tried to summon my abilities a number of times, but I couldn't keep myself focused. My entire body ached. Even breathing was a chore. The air around me was stale and damp, leaving a wanting pit in my lungs. I felt as though I was moments away from drowning. Each one of my senses were gone. Perhaps I was dead.
Where was I, then? Purgatory? Even the lab was a step up from whatever 'this' was. It almost felt disrespectful, like an insult to myself, to crave the bleached white hallways and the blustering of the air conditioner. One could call it humbling; yearning for the place I hated more than anything else. Part of me didn't even want to admit it, stubbornly holding onto the opinion that the lab was the ninth circle of hell.
I hated being wrong.
Just as the thought crossed my mind, a pin prick of light appeared in the darkness. For the millionth time, I tried to move, tried to summon what dismal energy I had remaining. And just like the million times before, I failed.
The light grew in a slow, steady crescendo. I watched the darkness wither and decay before my eyes. To my left, it ebbed and flowed, as though it were fighting an invisible war with the ensuing light. For a little while, it stubbornly refused to retreat, but the war had a clear victor. The luminescence cut through the inky blackness like a knife comprised of pure sunlight.
In no time at all, the darkness was gone.
My head pounded with an ear-splitting ache. I gritted my teeth and tried to open my eyes, but the white-hot glare of the lab's lights made the task impossibly difficult. My left arm throbbed with a pain I could only describe as bone deep. However, it was my leg which took the brunt of my body's ire. Nerves, muscle, tissue, and bone all cried for reprieve against the never ending surge of hurt.
I was too scared to move. If my afflictions stung this badly when I was still, I could only imagine the pain if I dared to move.
I forced my eyes open only to be blinded for a few moments. A soft exhale escaped my lips, but soon the brightness died down and my bleary eyes could make out the room. A bag of fluid was propped up on a hanger to my side. A tube ran from the bag to my arm, which ended in the form of a needle burrowed in the crook of my elbow. I winced at the sight and averted my gaze.
I sat in some sort of hospital room. At first, I thought it was the nurse's office, but upon closer inspection I realized the space was far more advanced than that. Equipment of all kinds hung up on the wall, though I couldn't possibly imagine what they were used for. Gauze, bandaids, waste bins, and cotton swabs practically burst from a cabinet to my right. A few feet away, a screen displayed a jagged green line which spiked upwards and downwards with an audible 'beep.'
Just when I thought I'd seen all the room had to offer, my eyes landed on a pair of inky black work boots. The word "fuck" fell quietly from my lips.
Peter was splayed on a chair to my left, head in his hand as he gingerly massaged his temple. His gaze was glued to the floor, eyebrows furrowed together in silent contemplation. The view was certainly one to behold. I'd never seen him so... casual. That back-breaking posture he always wore was a memory as he leaned into the palm of his hand and spread his knees until they touched either side of the chair. A few blonde strands of hair fell out of place and brushed against his forehead.
It was his clothing that caught my attention. He adorned his signature white button down and white slacks, but the clothes weren't blemishless this time. They weren't so immaculate it almost hurt to behold. Dark, crimson stains marred the material along the center of his shirt, as though he'd buttoned it up with bloody fingers. My eyes flitted over to his hand, and just as I expected, his skin was dotted with red.
"Am I dreaming?" I asked. My voice was hoarse, scratching the inside of my throat. I must have been dreaming.
Almost instantaneously, Peter's head snapped in my direction. His gaze met mine, pooling with a thousand emotions trapped beneath frozen irises. His shoulders relaxed as a soft sigh fell from his lips. Relief. What in the world did he have to be relieved about?
"Are you gonna answer my question or what?" I frowned.
"No," He said, almost breathlessly, "You're not dreaming."
"Oh," My gaze shifted to his hands, then his shirt. If this wasn't a dream, then I could make him leave. The irony was almost laughable. It was in my very own dreams where he could do as he pleased, using my mind as though it weren't my own. Real life was the only place where I had a modicum of control over him. And with that control, I wanted to make him go away. I was tired, sore, and deeply unhappy with where I found myself. His presence only made it worse.
When I opened my mouth to cast him out, he interrupted, "I know what you're going to say."
"Do you?"
"I do," He replied, "You're going to tell me to leave because you're upset with me. Give me five minutes, Sixteen," He sat up straight in his chair, "Cease fire for five minutes. That's all I ask."
I watched him through ponderous, hesitant eyes. Five minutes. What could he accomplish in five minutes? Probably my bloody murder. Or the cutting off of each individual finger one by one. Honestly, I wouldn't put either past him... He did seem genuine though. Perhaps, instead, he would use that five minutes to apologize. Not in the the shitty, haphazard way he had in the past. A real, genuine apology which I knew I would never accept and yet craved with every breath I breathed. A sigh escaped my lips, "Five minutes."
He smiled, "Thank you."
I nodded and made a pitiful attempt at sitting up. A sharp, scalding hot pain cut through my arm. My vision blurred and a wince crossed over my face, but I wouldn't be deterred. I cradled my left arm in my lap, careful to make slow, concise movements.
"Careful, Sixteen," Peter cautioned. I sent him a cutting glare. 'Careful.' No shit, Sherlock. With an annoyed huff, I continued my efforts, getting about halfway up before pausing to catch my breath. He watched me with a frown. "Please, can I help you?"
I was silent. Embarrassed, because I talked a big game, and now I could hardly sit up without aid. This was a unique type vulnerability, worsened by Peter's worried stare. He pitied me. "No, I'm fine," I muttered. My right arm gave one last almighty push, and I was sitting up. Exhaustion hit me like a freight train.
Peter offered me a pointed look, "It's a marvel that you can come so close to death and still be so stubborn."
I rolled my eyes, "How did you know I was going to tell you to leave?"
A soft, amused smile lit up his face, as though I'd asked the silliest thing in the world. "Because I know you."
My heart skipped a beat in my chest. That familiar blissful, dizzying rush filled my veins. I cursed myself for that reaction; cursed my body for not listening to my mind. Peter must have sensed the change in me. Somehow, he always could. His head tilted to the side, eyes boring into mine as though he could see inside my brain. "Do you also know that you have blood on your shirt?" I asked, masterfully changing the subject.
He glanced down, blonde hair falling around his head, "No, actually, I didn't know that." He looked back up, "I was in a bit of rush earlier."
My gaze fell to the bandage wrapped tightly around my calf. The only indication that there was anything wrong underneath was a small, red dot staining the center. "I'm assuming it's my blood on your shirt."
"Yes," He answered, "It was a lot worse before. I thought all the blood might... frighten you, so I changed, but that seems beside the point now."
I frowned, "I'm sorry."
He furrowed his eyebrows, "For what? Staining my clothes? Trust me, Sixteen, they won't be missed."
"Still, I'm sorry... Is Six alright?" I asked. My face flushed when I recalled the events of that morning. Just when I thought I couldn't possibly be more embarrassed. 'You're powerful' Peter had said. Another lie. If I was powerful, I would've been able to help. I would have been able to keep Six out of harm's way. Instead, I fumbled around like an idiot, trading real, authentic power for pots, knives, and kitchen utensils.
"She'll be fine. Nothing a few days of rest won't cure." His expression shifted into something that resembled a wince, "You might need a little more time, though. It was touch and go for a little while."
"Oh." My eyes fell down to the bandage all over again. It was a sobering affair, to come so, incredibly close to death's doors. If I really focused, I could still feel my fingertips brushing against its frigid, breathless doorknob. The contemplation of death wasn't a new feat following the past two weeks, but I was certain it would be of my own free will when I walked up to that door. Not because some foolish, insignificant children had a foolish, insignificant vendetta against me.
I felt... violated. Like Two and Four had broken into my body and robbed a part of my soul. They knew what it was like to have no control, to be utterly helpless, crushed beneath Papa's thumb. My life was the one thing I had full sovereignty over. And yet, somehow, they managed to take that from me, too.
I hated them for it. Hated them with every severed nerve-ending, every bleeding wound, every throbbing inch of my body. Another volt of pain shot down my arm when I realized I wanted to hurt them, too. Perhaps even worse than they'd hurt me. I pictured them bloody and beaten before me while I loomed over like some divine entity. A rush filled my body, nauseating and cathartic all at once.
And then shame brought me crashing back to earth.
"I think I want to hurt them," I couldn't meet Peter's eyes. I was embarrassed, ashamed, knowing I should better than that and yet not knowing how. "Really, really bad. Fuck, and it sounds so awful to admit out loud."
"No, no, no," Peter's shoes padded against the ground as he rose from his chair and neared me, "That anger, that rage, it's perfectly understandable. Innate, even... Can I confide something to you?"
His shoes entered my peripheral vision as he reached the side of my bed. My gaze moved from my bandage to Peter with agonizing slowness. He loomed over me, a sight I would almost consider intimidating if I didn't trust him not to hurt me. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I almost laughed at the irony. 'Trust' and 'Peter;' words I wouldn't ever expect to be in the same sentence after all he'd done. I suppose there were some habits I couldn't break so easily. He was Peter, after all. A fatal drug I knew better than to take and yet craved more than anything else. I didn't even realize the withdrawals I'd been going through until he was there, speaking to me, perfect as ever.
He was my very worst daydream; one I knew to be a nightmare and still, he always managed to lull me back to sleep.
"Sometimes..." He leaned down, closer to me so I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes, "I wish I could hurt people, too."
I furrowed my eyebrows. Sweet, kind, loving Peter wishing harm upon others. I suppose I always knew he had two faces. The first face he wore when he wanted to appear the diligent, composed orderly. I saw it in his soft, polite smiles, lacking in any genuine happiness. It showed in the straightening of his back, the conciseness of his movements. Then there was the other face. Darker, warped, perhaps even a little depraved. It presented itself in slivers, a beast rearing its head only for a brief, scathing moment before disappearing beneath robotic civility and tact.
"You should confide in me more often," I breathed, "It suits you."
He smiled, "Perhaps I will." A strange breed of tension hung in the air, writhing between our stares. After so many days apart, after so much had gone wrong, I was surprised at how strong I felt the urge to kiss him. Surprised that my walls had collapsed so easily. My feelings towards him were always so intense, be it hatred or adoration. The bipolar nature of it all, the inability to predict how I would respond to him one day to the other, it was maddening.
But I had to be better.
I had to be smarter.
My exhale was an unsteady one as I begrudgingly moved my eyes from his. The invisible thread that bound us together dissipated before I could even think of mourning it. "I'm assuming you know Two and Four did... this," I nodded to the bandage on my leg.
I looked back at Peter. If he was at all effected by the moment that had just passed between us, he didn't show it. That familiar clenching of my heart, that longing for a sign that what I felt wasn't entirely one-sided, it was stronger now. I cursed him for being so skilled at hiding his emotions. An answer was all I needed; a clear sign that I wouldn't be able to refute.
"It wasn't too difficult to figure out," He replied, "After their threat. I shouldn't have doubted you when you told me they wouldn't stop. I know it doesn't change anything, but I am sorry."
"When will you realize I'm always right, Peter?" I mused, "Have you said anything to anyone yet?"
He shook his head, "No. I've been holed up in here for quite a while. Why?"
He said it so nonchalantly, as though it were as simple and meaningless as brushing his teeth. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I was grasping at straws, reading into something that didn't go beyond surface level. But he waited for me. Hour passed and he sat right next to me, watching like some guardian angel from my worst nightmares.
"I don't want you to tell anyone who did it," I explained, "Two and Four threatened Six and I. They said if we told anyone what happened, they'd actually kill us. And I know you think the right amount of pressure will keep them from going through with it, but look where that got me. I don't want to put anyone else in danger."
His jaw ticked. "They nearly killed you, Sixteen." He titled his head, sapphire eyes narrowing, "You're asking me to let them get away with it."
"Yes, I am."
"I can't let this go unpunished. I won't," He shook his head, "You shouldn't either."
Two and Four had nearly killed me. That action alone would merit a punishment. But it was what they did to Six that they'd suffer for; how they dragged her into a conflict that wasn't hers to begin with. I would have my retribution, but it not at the hands of Papa or his guards. I couldn't rely on them to truly send the message, to send Two and Four screaming back to the dark, decrepit corner they crawled out of. No, that would be my job. I'd hurt them exactly how they had hurt Six and I. They key difference being it would be far, far worse.
And Peter couldn't know that, because I wouldn't be fooled into trusting him with such information again. He'd gotten in my way once, and I'd be damned if I let him do it again. Especially when it was Six's life on the line.
"What would you do to earn back my trust?" I faced him once more.
He was silent for a few moments, eyes glued on mine. It was those god awful eyes that made keeping my composure so difficult. Simply looking into them felt intimate beyond words, like he reserved them for me and me alone. Or maybe it was just Peter, who stared in a way only he possibly could. Sometimes the intensity of it all was frightening. "Anything," He rasped.
My heart pounded against my ribcage. I could feel the brittle bones stirring, cracking, breaking into a million pieces until my skin. "Good," I sighed, "Then this is the first step to earning it back; don't say anything. I don't care if you think it's the right thing to do. I'm asking-- no, telling-- you not to let Papa know who did this. It's not your story to tell and it's not your decision to make."
His scrutinized my face, lips tilted into a frown when he replied, "Fine. Though, you should know, I wholeheartedly disagree with you on this."
"I know," My expression shifted into a gentle smile that didn't quite reach my eyes, "Your five minutes is up, Peter. Please send Papa in after you leave."
He lingered for a moment longer, almost like he was waiting for me to change my mind and call him back. A part of me wanted to. It kicked and screamed and tried to claw its way onto the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it back. Peter's fingers grasped the doorknob. He paused.
"You'll trust me eventually, Sixteen," He breathed, "Take your time. I can wait."
Hi guys!!! Sorry for such a late update, school has been curb stomping me repeatedly. I fucking hate school.
OKAY! SO WE'RE BACK TO SIXTEEN'S POV AND THIS CHAPTER IS FULL OF SOFT PETER idk if u guys like soft Peter but I think he's cool af but don't worry there is some gaslighting yet to come.
Also I read the most insane fic recently like Peter was literally beating the fuck out of the m/c and she was like "omg he's so sexy" and I was sitting there fucking in shock because I thought MY version was toxic but god damn
Enjoyy <33 Please comment and tell me what you think!