[ He's loathe to admit that the sound Peter makes ( that laugh ) is far more reassuring than anything that the nurses have said, thus far. ]
Whatever it was, [ he looks down, at himself - at the chipped and broken edges of his fingernails and the bruises on his cuticles and he thinks - what was i clawing at - and he feels the dull ache behind his right eyelid, throbbing to the stuttering beat of his heart. There's a pit in his stomach, and he has a feeling that it mirrors the one in Peter's. That twisting thing called hunger, tossing itself against a set of bruised ribs. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck; gut instinct, and he knows it's gotten him through worse things than mysterious accidents and the long, long waiting game to be dismissed from the hospital.
He forgets to respond.
It's not his fault, really. The painkillers combine with his natural tenancy to drift, mind rifling through available information and observation, trying to piece things together in a way that suits the narrative. Everything had a narrative, after all. Part of his job was figuring that out. Narrative yielded motive, motive yielded answers - though not always in that order. If only it were in that order, he wouldn't be needed. Any old asshole off the street could do his job -- and he thinks. Real hard, about what brought them here. ]
Ow.
[ Can't. Too much, too fast, and Peter is talking to him again. ]
If I lay down, I'm going to fall asleep. [ He does shift his weight, feebly dragging himself to the other side of the hospital bed, leaving as much room for Peter ( more than enough, he thinks; peter's a long streak of nothing, if he angles himself just right ). He doesn't say that there's room for Peter, doesn't really offer that, but he's made the space for him, all the same. That's how things are, that's how he says things. No words, just actions. Like the way his hand finds Peter's, and he aches with unconscious, gut-reaction: slender fingers, touching his hand and words, a mumbled aside, a simple request that wasn't so simple at the time and now was. Vague blurs of emotion, and most of them attached to this guy. ]
It's not my fault you've got so much leg to crush. The nurse should be back soon, anyways - I hear I have paperwork to fill out, if I want to leave.
no subject
[ He's loathe to admit that the sound Peter makes ( that laugh ) is far more reassuring than anything that the nurses have said, thus far. ]
Whatever it was, [ he looks down, at himself - at the chipped and broken edges of his fingernails and the bruises on his cuticles and he thinks - what was i clawing at - and he feels the dull ache behind his right eyelid, throbbing to the stuttering beat of his heart. There's a pit in his stomach, and he has a feeling that it mirrors the one in Peter's. That twisting thing called hunger, tossing itself against a set of bruised ribs. The prickling sensation on the back of his neck; gut instinct, and he knows it's gotten him through worse things than mysterious accidents and the long, long waiting game to be dismissed from the hospital.
He forgets to respond.
It's not his fault, really. The painkillers combine with his natural tenancy to drift, mind rifling through available information and observation, trying to piece things together in a way that suits the narrative. Everything had a narrative, after all. Part of his job was figuring that out. Narrative yielded motive, motive yielded answers - though not always in that order. If only it were in that order, he wouldn't be needed. Any old asshole off the street could do his job -- and he thinks. Real hard, about what brought them here. ]
Ow.
[ Can't. Too much, too fast, and Peter is talking to him again. ]
If I lay down, I'm going to fall asleep. [ He does shift his weight, feebly dragging himself to the other side of the hospital bed, leaving as much room for Peter ( more than enough, he thinks; peter's a long streak of nothing, if he angles himself just right ). He doesn't say that there's room for Peter, doesn't really offer that, but he's made the space for him, all the same. That's how things are, that's how he says things. No words, just actions. Like the way his hand finds Peter's, and he aches with unconscious, gut-reaction: slender fingers, touching his hand and words, a mumbled aside, a simple request that wasn't so simple at the time and now was. Vague blurs of emotion, and most of them attached to this guy. ]
It's not my fault you've got so much leg to crush. The nurse should be back soon, anyways - I hear I have paperwork to fill out, if I want to leave.