[ He's quiet on their way to housing block 17 (because what the fuck does he even say that won't make him sound pissed or frustrated or really, really, really freaked out, because that's totally his mental state right now, just a weird yogurt swirl of everything), and he motions for her to wait as he peeks in.
Luck is on their side, for once -- looks like the place has been vacated for the time being, and he leads her into the center room he shares with Cheriour. If these were normal circumstances? He'd make a joke about leaving a necktie on the doorknob as he shuts the door behind them. But these aren't normal circumstances, these are seriously fucked up circumstances. Like, seriously fucked. Like, Jesus.
But he swallows down that urge to panic, busies himself with pulling bandages, cloth, and disinfectant out of the storage cabinet at the foot of his bed. As long as he's moving and has something to do, he can keep himself from totally flipping the fuck out at Rosie what the fuck was she thinking what the fuck what the fuck why didn't you tell me you were having trouble earlier.
(But that's her business. It's not usually in Peter's nature to pry, but right now? He really fucking wants to.)
Strangely, his expression stays pretty grim, pretty serious throughout his silent meltdown; the only indication of his worry is the way his jaw clenches when he glances over at her injured arm. He pours some of the disinfectant onto a waded-up piece of cloth and moves over to her. ]
no subject
Luck is on their side, for once -- looks like the place has been vacated for the time being, and he leads her into the center room he shares with Cheriour. If these were normal circumstances? He'd make a joke about leaving a necktie on the doorknob as he shuts the door behind them. But these aren't normal circumstances, these are seriously fucked up circumstances. Like, seriously fucked. Like, Jesus.
But he swallows down that urge to panic, busies himself with pulling bandages, cloth, and disinfectant out of the storage cabinet at the foot of his bed. As long as he's moving and has something to do, he can keep himself from totally flipping the fuck out at Rosie what the fuck was she thinking what the fuck what the fuck why didn't you tell me you were having trouble earlier.
(But that's her business. It's not usually in Peter's nature to pry, but right now? He really fucking wants to.)
Strangely, his expression stays pretty grim, pretty serious throughout his silent meltdown; the only indication of his worry is the way his jaw clenches when he glances over at her injured arm. He pours some of the disinfectant onto a waded-up piece of cloth and moves over to her. ]
Let me see. [ Command, not a question. ]