[ Peter spends most of the night half-awake and wary, spends most of the next day in a daze; he sits beside Charlie's bed, despite everyone telling him to get back to his own, arms folded on the edge, chin resting on his arms.
He doesn't sleep -- not really, anyway -- because he hates hospitals. Hates the feel of them. Hates the sharp scent of disinfectant and antiseptic. Hates the sight of sharp whites and calming beiges and greens. Hates the beeping of machinery and the sight of tubes and needles.
He knows Charlie will be fine, knows he'll be able to bounce back from this, but being here, with doctors and nurses milling around, machines beeping and the smell of medicine filling his lungs -- it unsettles something deep and visceral in him, and he just. He needs to be near him, because hospitals mean quiet goodbyes and life slipping through your fingers and he needs to be near him, to rest a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat, feel him breathing, to know he's alive.
It's fucking stupid, and he knows it. But when the painkillers finally fade, he doesn't leave (because he left her side when she needed him most, and he's never going to make that mistake again.)
Charlie's voice, shitty as it is, is practically the sweetest fucking thing he's heard all day, and it snaps him out of his weird trance, staring at an invisible spot on the wall. He unfolds himself, reaches out to touch his arm (because Charlie's hands are a mess, splinted and wrapped in clear plastic mittens with some sort of warming gel that Peter doesn't know the first thing about, except that they're supposed to help speed up the healing). ]
Hey. [ And Peter's voice isn't much better, either, though the dark bruises on his throat make it little wonder why. ] How're you feeling?
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He doesn't sleep -- not really, anyway -- because he hates hospitals. Hates the feel of them. Hates the sharp scent of disinfectant and antiseptic. Hates the sight of sharp whites and calming beiges and greens. Hates the beeping of machinery and the sight of tubes and needles.
He knows Charlie will be fine, knows he'll be able to bounce back from this, but being here, with doctors and nurses milling around, machines beeping and the smell of medicine filling his lungs -- it unsettles something deep and visceral in him, and he just. He needs to be near him, because hospitals mean quiet goodbyes and life slipping through your fingers and he needs to be near him, to rest a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat, feel him breathing, to know he's alive.
It's fucking stupid, and he knows it. But when the painkillers finally fade, he doesn't leave (because he left her side when she needed him most, and he's never going to make that mistake again.)
Charlie's voice, shitty as it is, is practically the sweetest fucking thing he's heard all day, and it snaps him out of his weird trance, staring at an invisible spot on the wall. He unfolds himself, reaches out to touch his arm (because Charlie's hands are a mess, splinted and wrapped in clear plastic mittens with some sort of warming gel that Peter doesn't know the first thing about, except that they're supposed to help speed up the healing). ]
Hey. [ And Peter's voice isn't much better, either, though the dark bruises on his throat make it little wonder why. ] How're you feeling?