[ He swallows thickly, still gaping up at Charlie – Charlie, almost unrecognizable after a year and a half, save for the shock of blue of his eyes. It’s a rhetorical question that falls from Charlie’s lips, he knows, but Peter says dazedly, ]

... Kinda. Yeah.

[ For a second, he wonders if he might actually be hallucinating.

He finally tears his gaze away to follow Charlie’s glance to the door. It hangs slightly ajar from the hinges, slightly closed over though not fully shut, a bloody palm print on the doorjamb. ]

I don’t know.

[ A strained tremor in his voice. Peter scoops up his knife and stuffs it back in its sheath. ]

Maybe. Probably. I didn’t— Wasn’t exactly— careful. Getting away.

[ He licks his lips, lets out a shaking breath. ]

What the hell are you doing here?