[ He sees the bruises peeking just above the collar of her jacket, feels something flare in his chest at the thought of those fucking assholes, those goddamn fucking bastards, and for a brief second, he just hears the questions he wants to ask (why? What the fuck did they do to you? Why the fuck would you go to them? Why didn’t you say anything?) and sees red. His hands shake as they tighten over the wad of cloth and bandages.
(The thing about Peter? He has a long fuse. He's quick to annoy, quick to frustrate, but all out anger? It's a slow burn. Words don't hurt him, and neither does physical pain (though that sucks no matter what). It takes knowing his weakness. It takes fucking with anything that means a lot to him. His Walkman. His family. His friends.
And right now, Peter's furious.)
He takes a breath, wills himself to calm down and for his vision to clear -- because those fucking Yao shitstains aren't here right now. They don't have eyes and ears here anymore. Right now it's just him, Rosie, and wounds that needs taking care of. So he focuses on this. Focuses on her. Focuses on now. Focuses on the problem he can solve and leaves the bigger problems to the men and women better handled to tackle it.
He thinks, Those motherfuckers will regret this.
He takes her injured wrist as gently as he can and pauses before he touches the cloth to her skin. ]
Sorry, man. [ His voice is still a little strained, but not as badly as before. He's trying to get himself under control. ] This is gonna sting like a motherfucker.
[ It's the only warning she gets before he sets about the work of disinfecting the injury. He's silent for a few seconds before swallowing thickly, and fuck, he feels sick. He feels terrible for her. He wants to know what the fuck drove her to go to those sadistic fuckers, but-- it'll come out in time.
Focus on this. Focus on her. Focus on now.
After the quiet settles awkwardly over them, he licks his lips, forces some levity into his voice. ]
no subject
(The thing about Peter? He has a long fuse. He's quick to annoy, quick to frustrate, but all out anger? It's a slow burn. Words don't hurt him, and neither does physical pain (though that sucks no matter what). It takes knowing his weakness. It takes fucking with anything that means a lot to him. His Walkman. His family. His friends.
And right now, Peter's furious.)
He takes a breath, wills himself to calm down and for his vision to clear -- because those fucking Yao shitstains aren't here right now. They don't have eyes and ears here anymore. Right now it's just him, Rosie, and wounds that needs taking care of. So he focuses on this. Focuses on her. Focuses on now. Focuses on the problem he can solve and leaves the bigger problems to the men and women better handled to tackle it.
He thinks, Those motherfuckers will regret this.
He takes her injured wrist as gently as he can and pauses before he touches the cloth to her skin. ]
Sorry, man. [ His voice is still a little strained, but not as badly as before. He's trying to get himself under control. ] This is gonna sting like a motherfucker.
[ It's the only warning she gets before he sets about the work of disinfecting the injury. He's silent for a few seconds before swallowing thickly, and fuck, he feels sick. He feels terrible for her. He wants to know what the fuck drove her to go to those sadistic fuckers, but-- it'll come out in time.
Focus on this. Focus on her. Focus on now.
After the quiet settles awkwardly over them, he licks his lips, forces some levity into his voice. ]
So. Seen any good movies lately?