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By now, Peter has gotten all too used to the feeling of being unsatisfied. It's selfish- and god he knows- that he's complaining about his life when others have it so much worse. For Christ sake, he sees the ugly, the terrifying, and the out-right inhumane events people go through everyday. Really, what did he expect from taking on a responsibility this big? And, well, didn't that just turn out great! He's forever in this mess of being a 'vigilante' because of a decision back when he was young, naive, and throwing away the life he'd known, just for a chance to live the rest of it protecting people he doesn't know. Sacrificing the people he did.
Peter scoffs, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris from the sidewalk. He's currently making his way back to Nelson, Murdock & Page, after a long and mentally exhausting shift at a local cafe. One that Matt keeps trying to encourage him to resign from.
"Peter," Matt had begun while lecturing him last week, after Peter had come home with eye bags darker than the coffee sat upon the lawyers desk, "I will literally pay you double the wages they do for half the amount of work. Why are you so insistent on putting up with that job?"
"I don't need to rely on you so much, Matt." Peter had snapped, watching Matt's face drop into... hurt? Sympathy? "I’m not some lousy teenager. I can look after myself without someone stepping in." Peter had deflected, harshly. His words were meant to cut, and it looked as if they’d hacked deep.
He couldn't bare admitting to Matt that it's the spot where he, Ned and MJ would hang out after school.
Matt knew something was wrong with Peter, and that irked him. A lot . From the subtle praises on his form or technique on patrol, to the looks of concern Matt casts Peter when he thinks he won't notice, or even the mental health support posters suddenly appearing in every corner of the office- Peter knew Matt knew . He doesn't like the thought of being read like an open book, especially when he's been trying so hard to shut himself away ever since the spell. But Matt just has that presence- the kind of one where you know that you're going to be safe as long as you're with him. Just like May. Just like May did-
Peter clutched the fabric above his pounding heart, as he tried to steer his mind away from that new Pandora's box. He looked around, finding that the streets of Hell's Kitchen were uncharacteristically quiet today, and that even the weather was on an upturn, even as autumn crept forever closer. It was like the universe was literally laughing in his face- yet again creating more reasons why Peter's selfish for even thinking this way. He closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing, as his legs stumble faster to the law firm. Hold it together Peter, hold it together, hold it to-
A bump on his shoulder, and lightning shoots through his veins. He gasped, eyes shooting open, and staggered backwards. He clutched the metal rail behind him like it was about to fly away. A large perfume bottle rolled on his foot, and Peter followed the direction it came from. A woman, dressed in office attire, lay sprawled on the pavement, frantically trying to catch her runaway items, as her large yellow purse lay completely open on the concrete. She blubbered into her phone, which was pressed between her dark brown hair and blazer shoulder. Her back faced Peter.
"Oh my god - I'm so sorry," Peter quickly apologised, picking up the perfume bottle and clumsily walking over to her.
What an idiot, Parker , Peter thought, realising that he was so caught up in his own head, he didn't even register his spider-sense going off. Useless
The lady gracefully stood up -clutching her bag to her arm and brushing down her box skirt- then turned to face Peter.
He swears the world stopped spinning.
Chestnut hair, soft brown eyes, full of smiles -all-too familiar. Her plastic name tag clamped to her buttoned shirt reads Carol, but all Peter could think of was May. Peter's ears ring loud, but he manages to make out:
"Thank you, and no need to apologise sweetie," Carol chimes, carefully taking the perfume from Peter's hands, then adjusting her round glasses, "I'm in a terrible rush, but thanks for not stealing anything!"
Peter watches her half-run, as her heels click on the concrete- sounding like bullets to his sensitive ears- as she chats away into the phone, clutching the dandelion bag even tighter.
He stands still, silently. Who wouldn't after seeing a ghost? Suddenly, he can feel the threads on his socks, he can hear the car alarm going off about 10 blocks away, and he can smell the salty tears of a child crying over a dropped toy. Even with his palms now tightly pressed on his ears, and eyes clamped shut, nothing will stop . Minutes pass, and the city doesn't stop .
The streets begin to grey- an overcast falling over the Kitchen. Rain drizzles, then pours from the sky, which forms a puddle beneath Peter. Water pools on his head, sticking brown curls to his face, as he stares down a reflection he can't even recognise, rippling in the wind. He stomps a resentful foot into the water, uncaring of who's caught in the splash.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and sees that Foggy's messaged him, asking if he's nearly back yet. Rain- tears- (who really cares?) pile on his phone screen, so Peter shoves it back into his jean pocket, unable to bring himself to reply. He can't remember anything but short breaths and blurred buildings on his way back to the firm.
When Peter finally stumbles through the door, warmth floods his shivering body. He peels off his jacket, and practically launches it onto the hanger. Water drips off the coat, onto the carpet, in a continual rhythm, mimicking how fast Peter's heart races. It feels close to exploding inside his chest. He kind of wishes it will. Peter distantly registers Foggy's greeting from somewhere in the office, but his brain is too overwhelmed to pinpoint where.
"W-Where's Matt?" He shakily shouts, then realising he didn't need to, as Foggy quickly appears in the corner of the room. He's in a casual outfit: sweats and a loose jumper. His hair is in a bun, and he looks so damn calm . Peter clenches and unclenches his fists in an attempt to ground himself, but he knows it's a losing battle.
"He's just out, getting a few grocer– Peter, are you okay?" Foggy asks, now fully taking in Peter. He knows he looks like a mess. A stupid, pathetic, mess .
"Fine. Just.. cold" Peter lies, and Foggy's lips tighten. He knows Foggy can probably tell what he’s saying is utter bullshit by Peter’s pained face alone, so he turns around, ripping off his shoes with a squelch. He never liked lying to Foggy.
"Peter.. you know you can talk to me, right? I get that you're stressed, trust me, I get it, and..." Foggy started, and Peters already stopped listening, because how could anyone get it? How could literally anyone in the world understand how Peter's feeling right now? Peter turns around, flinging his shoes by the door, eyes glazed over.
Foggy must realise he's blanked him out, so he begins to move towards Peter.
Breathe.
Foggy reaches out his arm. It's meant to be gentle, reassuring, and he knows Foggy only wants to help him, because Peter knows that's the kind of guy he is.
So, when Peter's body goes into fight or flight, it doesn't surprise him. He's not really been in control lately.
He shoves Foggy's hand away.
"I'm fine," Peter states, and moves to tremble up the stairs, "just leave me alone ."
Foggy's looking at him like he wants to do something, but doesn't want to risk making things worse. Peter feels sick with guilt. He grips the railing to stabilise himself, and forces the boulders that have now become his feet to move.
"Peter... do you want me to call Matt? He can come straight back now if you-"
"No!" Peter whips round, eyes wide and scared. The last thing he wants is more people having to see him act like...like this at the moment. Especially Matt. He just needs to sort himself out and stop worrying everyone, because if he's come this far on his own then he can't afford to hurt more people than he already has. His hands shake, and Peter thinks he can hear the railing rattle beneath them.
Foggy steps back, surprised, and clenches his jaw so tight Peter knows that he's holding back a waterfall of words that he wants to say. The room is at a standstill, and for a few moments, the only noise that fills the small space are Peters ragged breaths. Foggy looks softly at Peter, and Peter doesn't think he deserves to be regarded as anything less than pathetic right now. He can feel the tears falling before he's even registered they were coming, so Peter turns to face up the stairs. Nails dig into his palms.
"Just.. don't. I can't- He can't-... I'm... fine ." It doesn't help Peter's case when his voice breaks into a high pitched whine at the end, as he clenches his hands even deeper into a tight fist. The ringing in his ears is so loud now that he can't even hear himself talk, so he trusts that he's made his point. Peter takes a hesitant step up. Then another. Foggy must begin to speak, as muffled speech breaks through the white noise, but nothing he can say is going to help Peter now. He doesn't even know why Foggy's still trying to get through to him.
He stumbles up the stairs and runs, because that's all Peter's ever known to do.
The sinkhole in Peter's heart only continues to deepen as he jolts towards the bathroom. His hands are wracked in tremors, so he fumbles with the handle, as adrenaline shakes through his core. When the door finally opens, Peter nearly falls face first into the stone tiling, before barely catching himself on the sink. He spares a glance up, and meets an equally exhausted face in the mirror. Yikes . His hair - grown out at the sides and back- has now fully curled from the rain. God knows when he last had a haircut. His skin is paler, eyes duller, and, for the first time in years, Peter can't even bring himself to care about what he looks like- to himself, or to other people. He just doesn't care anymore. Letting out a shaky exhale, he runs a heavy hand down his face in defeat, then lets his arm flop down into the sink. He hangs his head and hunches his shoulders, and tears drip into the pale ceramic bowl. As Peter looks away in shame, a tearful gaze catches on his arm that lay limp in the sink. More specifically, it's raised pale lines that have him snapping up in recognition. Peter startles back, alarm evident on his face, as he slams into the door, knocking it shut.
He knows it's a bad decision as soon as the thought enters his mind. He hasn't... hurt himself…ever since…
Peter squeezes his eyes closed, willing the sinkhole would swallow him already.
The scars are years old, and long healed over. He'd promised May he would never even think of doing it again. It was unhealthy- he'd known it at the time, and he knows it now . Despite this understanding, despite everything he'd promised May, it still doesn't stop Peter from desperately searching the cupboards for razors... because.. May isn't here anymore , and Peter's mind is all messed up, and wrong , and he just needs an escape- from this , from himself , from-
Peter finds an unopened packet of razor caps. It's tucked far, far back behind an array of cheap colognes and soaps -clearly just stored as spares- but Peter's got them now. His fingers shake like leaves as he disassembles the cap, when the urge to hurt stinging in Peter's chest heightens. His joints remember the movement like it was second nature, because Peter's done this song and dance time and time before. His heart leaps when it's finally cracked open, and he feels a sense of giddy dread that replaces any prior anxiety. Peter knows he'll hurt himself, so why is he happy about it?
Not wanting to mull over that train of thought, Peter falters to the opposite end of the bathroom, and slides to the floor, leaning his back against the walk-in shower doors. He holds up the razor, and it catches the window light, beaming a metallic shine that reflects into Peter's eyes, as his pupils constrict from the glare.
If Peter wasn't so stuck inside his own head, he would've overheard Foggy downstairs calling Matt , as soon as Peter had disappeared.
He would've felt Foggy's panicked heart flutter, as Foggy told Matt to come home.
If he really tried now, Peter might even hear Matt rushing his way through Hell's Kitchen- maybe even the sound of his cane clattering violently with him.
Unfortunately, it did not and will not occur to Peter to do any of this, because all common sense left his head the moment he opened the bathroom door.
Peter stretches his arm out and heaves a heavy sigh. In one slow stroke, the razor glides. It's anything but pretty, as the white line slowly disappears when blood beads into a small, shaky, shallow cut above his wrist. Barely a scratch. So, Peter angles the razor slightly further up from the last line, and goes again. It's a little deeper- Peter feels this from the slight sting it gives. It bleeds quicker this time, but the pain is over before he even begins another breath. He stares solemnly as red drips onto the grey tile, like a poor imitation of tears. His arm is crying for him to stop. It's funny, Peter realises, when he thinks back to how his advanced healing never used to work when it came to his self-harm. Even now, years later, sitting in this cold bathroom, he stares at the blood that trickles down his arm, and wonders why he still can't heal. Peter grips the razor tighter, and cuts again. Then again. He winces, grimacing after a deep prick of pain. The 5th cut comes and goes soon after. The same is said for the 6th. 7's deeper, but by 8 he's too far gone to realise it. The world spins, and for a moment, Peter almost thinks he's floated away. His eyes haze and everything spins together. Peter's bloody arm blurs into two, then three, then two, then- okay, now he's slightly freaking out a bit. He blinks owlishly, trying to fight the black spots in his eyes, and sways side to side for a few seconds. Can't even take a small prick, Peter?, his mind taunts him. He knew he was useless, but seriously? This is a new Parker low. He grits his teeth in frustration. An angry line is cut, oozing a crimson red.
Peter reminds himself he needs this because it proves he's real. He needs this, because it's a punishment for all the grief Peter's caused other people. It's why he now silently sits and slices his skin, because what is Peter's life if he doesn't deserve to be alone and suffering?
drip. drip.
At this moment, Peter wants to forget about all the people that have actually offered to help him these past few months, and how he's tried- really tried - to not let them through the walls he's built. It didn't take him long before Peter had already cracked, and revealed his identity to a few of them- people he's now endangered because he's brought them into both of his lives. Is history going to be repeating itself, or is Peter now just cursed to live in the same twisted set of fate, where all the people he cares about eventually get hurt? Right now, he doesn't want to even begin to think about Karen, Luke, Foggy, Frank- especially Matt- because isn't the knife just twisting deeper at the thought of any of them seeing how weak he looks right now? Because he may be weak, and bleeding, and tired- but he's making himself hurt for their benefit. Peter's been given a second chance- he has to be better this time. He has to be the one to punish himself for his past mistakes, because Peter's the only one who remembers. He doesn't think he'll ever forget.
Sniffing, Peter wipes water out his eyes with the free arm- still tightly gripping the stained blade. Carving the metal into his skin, Peter knows he’s gone too far before he’s even finished the line. He pushes deeper.
For the first time in a while, Peter's senses go completely still; the ringing even slows. White hot pain seeps across his arm, like flames erupting on his skin. Shocked, a strangled gasp escaped his lips. He stills, letting the tears wordlessly flood out. Peter's head is an ocean, and his thoughts are caught in its storm.
Right now, he doesn’t mind letting himself drown.
drip. drip drip. drip.
More blood; a river of red cascading down his skin. Peter thought he would feel satisfied by now, so why does his chest still ache? He drops the blade with a loud clatter, and, as it spins to the other end of the bathroom, Peter squeezes a frantic hand down onto cuts until his arm turns white. He ignores the pain. The bleeding doesn't stop. It trickles onto his socks, and all Peter can do is watch- he’s never been this much of a bystander in his whole life. Short gasps of miserable wet breaths wrack his lungs, and he slumps further down the outer shower door. He aches .
Get up. You deserved this. Stop being so weak, Peter repeats in his head like a mantra. A strange inhale; a desperate gulp for air. Peter sinks deeper.
Muffled shouts in the hallway- distressed and worried.
He cautiously takes his hand off of his arm- some cuts are still leaking. Peter doesn't think he has much left to bleed.
Thunderous footsteps crash up the stairs, shaking the portraits on the walls.
Peter lets his blooded hand fall to the side. His eyes slowly close.
The crashing gets closer. It's nearly at the door.
Everything is muffled underwater.
....
...
..
BANG
The door flies open, as do Peter's eyes. His heart beats, beats , beats . He adjusts his blurred vision onto the heaving figure looming across from him- Peter's thumping heart drops to his chest. Disgruntled shirt, flamed hair, and distant eyes. Eyes that Peter swears at this moment, look directly into his own.
God, not him .
Matt- Matt Murdock - grips the door handle so tightly, Peter thinks he might just snap it clean off.
" Peter " Matt breathes out, like his name is a holy prayer. He looks so scared , as if Peter's already died, right here, right before him.
The stench of copper swims through the room.
Matt rushes toward him, only stopping when he seems to sense the blade, then kicks the tiny piece of metal as far out the room as humanly possible, as if it had personally wronged him. He kneels down on the cold tile, and Peter can feel the cool breeze of Matt’s shaky breaths on his face. He slings an arm under Peter's shoulder, and props him up straighter. Matt seems to pause, and Peter looks away. Away in shame? Regret? The lawyer's normally stern stare is now cautious, as If one wrong word might shatter Peter into a thousand pieces. It's very far from the usual looks of fondness he gives Peter, and even further from the look of when Matt is lecturing him- staring down at him as if weighing all of Peter's lifetime of sins before him. His body swings like a ragdoll, as he gets maneuvered around by Matt. He whines, all pathetic and helpless, and Matt gently strokes the back of his head.
Just as May used to do. For a second, Peter just let himself believe it was her. In his haze, he thinks Matt asks him a question, but cotton fills his ears. Matt repeats himself, louder.
" Peter , can you hear me? I'm here . I'm here for you, Pete."
Matt moves away from him, and the cold, tender touch disappears. Peter's body burns in a feverish flame, and he tries to lean towards where Matt pulled away. It's a valiant attempt, but Matt's already turned to fumble quickly in his pockets, which, after a moment, he jingles a key out of. He hastily moves to unlock a cabinet under the sink- Peter can hear the keys rattle violently as his hands shake. Matt pulls out a fresh towel, standing to dampen it under the sink, then sits back down with Peter. He can only watch, dazed, as Matt moves with such purpose and efficiency. Peter's arm throbs, and Matt only heightens the pain when he begins to press the towel down onto Peter's arm. He hisses, and tries to move away, but Matt stays as firm and unbending as ever. He mumbles an apology, but doesn’t move his hand.
"Hold it down. Apply as much pressure as you can," Matt says as gently as possible, then lifts Peter's other hand to press down with his own, "Peter, do you understand?"
A silent nod. Peter presses the towel down with the little strength he has at the moment.
"Just like that. That- That's good. Just hold it there like that for a moment. Just like that. You're doing so well, Peter."
He might cry. Again.
Peter tries to open his mouth to say anything- anything - but his brain comes up blank. Coherent words weren't an option at the moment. He bites his lip, glancing down to his arm, with its mangled state covered by the darkening towel. What a complete, utter, mess .
Matt removes his own hand, and -as Peter's emotional turmoil reaches a new high for the 90th time today- begins to unwrap a roll of gauze he pulls out of the cabinet, and mutters to himself under his breath. Peter strains his currently underperforming hearing to listen in. A few prayers, the occasional swears, and lots of jumbled words and phrases all mashed together. Peter’s never seen Matt this stressed out of his mind. The cool towel grounds him, and, for a brief moment, Peter catches a large, steady gasp of air. The momentary relief feels like his head reaches above water, even for just a second. Although Peter still shakes like a leaf, he can sense the sluggish blood slow down, which doesn't even feel like it's his anymore. Peter's body is so foreign to him at the moment, yet he can still feel each pin prick of pain that pierces through him.
“We’ll talk about this. Later, Peter. Properly.” Peter directs his head in the opposite direction when Matt spares a glance at him. “We will. Not now- God not now - but when you’re safe, and not dying in my bathroom… Christ Peter…”
Matt pauses, and takes a deep, albeit shaky, breath. The ugly monster of guilt lurks and crawls around Peter’s head. No, he’s not guilty about what he’s done to himself, because he was in control of that. What swirls inside Peter’s mind now is something much uglier… He’s guilty that Matt found him, and the fact that he’s trying to fix Peter, as if there’s anything left to fix . Because, this is now just another burden that Peter’s laid onto someone else's shoulders. Another regret, another twist of the knife, and another candle to add to the cake of failures. Everyone Peter’s ever known is invited to the party.
Matt runs a hand through his windswept hair; It looks like the unforgiving rain has eased down, as he doesn’t appear to be as drenched through as Peter was.
He doesn’t realise the minutes trapped in his own head pass, until Matt’s kneeled before him again, as if he was praying to Peter. Everything he’s done in the past hour is unworthy of any praise.
“Peter, can I check under the towel?”
His words catch in his throat again, so he elects to move his hand so Matt can look under where it’s been pressed. Matt lifts it up. Peter closes his eyes, because he can’t bare to look at that expression on Matt’s worn face again. He feels dizzy with anxiety- or is it the blood loss?
He cringes as the open wounds are exposed to the cold air, and quick apologies fall from Matt’s lips. Peter can feel him poking around the wounds, probably to check if anything jammed itself in there. He’s never felt quite as exposed as right now.
“Okay, I think they’ve stopped bleeding,” Matt observes, and Peter catches the relieved tone in his voice, “but I’m going to wrap your arm now. Please tell me if it’s too tight. Seriously, Peter.”
He nods, and cracks open his eyelids.
“I’m going to need you to try to say yes this time, Pete. I’m sorry , but this is really important.”
Peter doesn’t think of himself as ‘important’ .
Matt gives an encouraging look and a small smile. He’s much more expressive with his glasses off.
“ Yes ” Peter manages to squeak out, all small and high pitched. Tears start catching in the corners of his vision, because this is all horrible .
Matt nods in affirmation, and discards the drenched towel. Peter glances a remorseful look, and Matt always just seems to know when Peter’s distressed, so he speaks :
“Don’t worry about that. The amount of towels I’ve covered in my own blood over the years is probably enough to fill a swimming pool.” He begins dressing Peter's arm, carefully wrapping the white sheet around and around. He continues,
“Foggy would probably argue it’s more, just to be annoying.”
Peter huffs out a not-quite-laugh, but more of an agreement to the statement. Matt chuckles, more to himself, as if reminiscing on a funny memory. Peter realises himself doing that sometimes, but he bets Matt doesn’t feel the same pool of hollow emptiness afterwards- a gap in his chest that was once filled. That moment of realisation that he’ll never be able to create anymore memories with those people, or relive those moments, ever again .
Seconds, then minutes, pass by, with the occasional check from Matt that the gauze isn’t too tight, closely followed by the pathetic voice of Peter’s replies. His heart drums so loud the whole time, it starts to hurt his chest.
“There,” Matt breathes, as if suddenly bathed in a waterfall of relief, and feels around the skin to make sure every inch is fully covered- no cut left unprotected. His arm feels as heavy as a weighted club when he tries to lift it toward his chest.
“Careful,” Matt advises, “If it starts bleeding again, I’ll do another wrap over.”
Peter scowls, despite knowing Matt won’t be able to see it anyway.
Sensing Peter's displeasure, the older man shakes his head. How does he always know ? Momentarily distracted, Peter doesn’t fully realise how Matt reaches out to place a calloused hand upon his tired shoulder. Flinching under the unexpected touch, he expects Matt to take it off, or give Peter some space, or anything .
Matt begins to rub circles into his shoulder. Again, the cold touch is back, and Peter assumes that Matt's trying to actually soothe him. It might be doing the opposite.
Then, Matt does something Peter really doesn’t expect.
He actually leans in to hug Peter. A real, proper, hug .
Peter wants to scream . Scream, run, kick, fight . Fight and punch, run and never stop running-- run and never look back. He tries to will his body to move. It's not even winter yet, but Peter's frozen solid. Matt holds Peter with such gentleness- such kindness - like a newborn baby . Peter doesn't remember the last time he was held this softly. He waits for a surprise attack: a knuckle to the face, a broken arm. Peter waits, and waits , for Matt to decide he doesn't want him- but none of this comes. None of this comes, and Matt just holds Peter. Minutes pass, and nothing changes. Steadier breaths contrast shallow shakes of air.
Matt's here, and he's not hurting Peter.
Matt's here, and Peter wants him to stay.
It hurts to admit, but Peter doesn’t want to let go. He can’t , in fear that the moment will pass, and he’ll never get anything close to this again. Matt continues to rub his hand in a steady, circular motion, and Peter melts under the touch. Peter’s head lolls into the crook of Matt's shoulder. The ruffled shirt texture is very unpleasant to Peter’s- at the moment- hyper sensitive skin, but he doesn’t have the energy, nor the voice, to complain. They sit in silent acknowledgement, as Peter’s racing heart tries to slow itself down. Peter grips the fabric of Matt’s shirt.
Matt pulls Peter above water, but his mind is still under.
What am I doing?
Peter’s head runs loops around himself, trying to process.. well.. everything . The little voice inside Peter’s head sings and shouts about how Matt’s giving much more than Peter needs- how he’s undeserving of the time and effort the older man is giving him. His headache only grows. Peter’s really trying to ignore that voice and savour the present, because he knows he can get stuck in his head about this later… but he can’t help but wonder why Matt still tries? Matt certainly wasn’t meant to be here, and he certainly wasn’t meant to help him either. Peter was trying to fix his mistakes, but now there’s just been a hundred more created. He’s in deep, deep shit, and Peter can’t even muster one way out of it. Matt must know this, and Peter still hates that- the fact even before you do or think anything, then Matt's probably already known . Well, Peter would’ve liked to have known it was his mentor who would appear at this door.
His arm spasms momentarily. Matt holds him a little tighter.
What now?
“No hospitals” Peter hoarsely whispers, pleads , as soon as the thought comes to him, because It’s the very, very , last place- a place that’s even worse than being stuck here - that he wants to be this minute.
“No hospitals.” Matt whispers back, like a secret promise between the two of them.
Peter’s chest feels a little bit lighter.
There’s a long moment of silence that seems as if It will last forever, until Matt pulls apart from him, holding Peter at arms length, and clutching his shoulders with such urgency, as if Peter was going to disappear the moment he lets go. Peter stares into blue skies and sunken eye bags, and Matt peers directly onto his gaze. It startles him slightly.
His heart jumps for a second, and Matt’s lip twitches.
“...I thought that you died , Peter,” Matt begins, and, having to feel the guilt while hearing the sadness in Matt’s voice, Peter almost wishes he had .
“When I got that call ..”
Matt laughs, but there’s no joy behind it.
“..I told Foggy to wait- that I’d be there as fast as I could. The only thing I could hear was your heart. Fast -then stuttered- slow, and fast again, and again, and again .”
Peter’s completely silent, as Matt’s fingers jitter on his shirt sleeves. He takes a large inhale.
“Then- Christ -” Exhale, “then, I was inside, and I could tell your breathing was slowing, and I was so scared - so scared It was too late .”
He pauses, and Peter’s as quiet as a corpse. The whole room stands on edge- the air thickens, and Peter feels nothing and everything at the same time.
His arm hurts. His head hurts. Everything hurts .
“But you’re here . Here , breathing, heart beating fast- fast but alive . Here with me.”
Peter’s sluggish, tired, and fed up, but Matt’s words still pierce deep into him. His face is damp with tears now.
Matt moves a scarred hand to rest on Peter’s wet cheek.
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner- God, I’m sorry .”
Peter doesn’t know why he’s the one apologising, or really what for .
“But, Pete, we’ll all help you through this. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever .”
Everything feels surreal, like he’s been dumped in the deep end for the first time in his life, and been told to swim . But, everything Matt is saying is spoken with so much confidence , so much mettle , that it’s almost contagious. Matt’s promise to Peter that he- fuck, everyone - can help…well, Peter can’t fathom it.
The fiery red hair across from him sticks up in every possible direction, each strand taking its own pathway. Peter registers that he can feel his own curls have dried, probably looking all messy and ferocious- not like he cares .
None of that matters now, because Matt starts stroking his thumb up and down Peter's cheek.
“I’m not two .” Peter complains, throat closing in on him.
However, he doesn’t make an effort to pull away from the hand.
“I know.” Matt acknowledges, and chuckles, as warm laughter floods Peter's ears.
Peter cracks a small smile, his face dropping quicker than it came.
Matt furrows his eyebrows.
Another exhale.
“I’ll ask Foggy to call Claire. Claire- you remember her?”
Peter tenses- he knows Matt feels it.
Although a very brief meeting, Peter sure does remember Claire. He remembers being drugged up, prodded and poked, stitched and sewn, then questioned relentlessly about his injury when he had fully come back to it the morning after. She had seen his face- masked and unmasked. Claire knows who he is, but he has no idea who Claire is, considering Matt had refused to elaborate more than the mystery woman being ‘ someone you’d want to have in a dire situation ’. Back then, he had almost punched him straight between his stupid glasses.
By Peter’s silence, he thinks Matt had deduced that he was less than pleased about this arrangement.
“I know, but this is the only alternative to a hospital- I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more than Claire for this.”
This stumps Peter, because he doesn’t trust Claire, but it’s so obvious that Matt does.
Fuck it, what does he have to lose?
“...Fine,”
“Are you sure? Peter , you don’t have to-”
“ Matt ,” His voice betrays him, “it’s fine . Just let Foggy call her.”
…
He rubs his bandages anxiously. They remain straight and neat under the pressure, hiding away the monster beneath. He huffs and scowls, willing the fabric to break apart under his stare.
Matt furrows his brows deeper, and takes the hand rested on Peter’s face to cover the hand scratching and clawing at the gauze. Peter doesn’t stop, until Matt gently lifts his hand off.
Matt removes the other hand from his shoulder, and Peter’s so lost he just lets it happen.
He takes both his hands into the space between them, while encompassing and cradling Peter’s in the middle. His large hands swallow Peter's own, and he suddenly feels very small and feeble.
“Look, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, Peter. But, I also can’t imagine losing you. Scream at me , hit me , burden me with your problems, because nothing’s worse than bottling it up- pretending you’re fine. We both know you aren’t, otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here, talking about this, after all of... this.” Matt makes a gesture, waving a hand around the whole bathroom. “I can help you, kid , but not until you let yourself be helped. Peter…you’re so strong, but you don’t have to hold this weight on your own.”
Tears were already rolling down Peter’s face before Matt was even finished, but now he’s sobbing . He mourns everything he’s gained and lost, everything he’s fought for- everyone he’s fought for. Peter mourns everything he’s ever known . Matt squeezes Peter’s hand- a grounding force. At the minute, he’s looking just as broken as Peter. The amount of effort Matt is trying to put into helping Peter is what sent him off the edge, pushing him straight back into the deep end, after only just drowning.
But a very, very small part of his mind argues that it’s okay . It’s okay if he can’t come back to the surface, because Matt’s here to lift him out of the water every time. Matt's here to pick up the pieces of Peter’s broken heart and help him through his broken mind, because he still thinks he’s deserved the pain. His consciousness is a battleground of thoughts- Peter and his mind going head-to-head at the front. Should he get help from Matt? Should he deal with it himself, like he always has, and might always will?
He isn't thinking straight- not for the past few hours- not at all .
Maybe that’s why this time, Peter hugs Matt first.
He coughs, as Peter latches on like a cat- a kitten - ,so incredibly anguished and pathetic. But Matt doesn’t complain. He strokes the back of Peter’s head again, as he continues to cry. And cry. He’s getting Matt’s shirt wet, but he doesn’t complain. He just shifts them both around, so Peter’s bandaged arm is more comfortable. When Peter’s body finally buckles from exhaustion, piling all his weight onto Matt, he still doesn't complain. Just soft hushes, soft reassurance, and soft touch. He’s shaking and dejected, angry but happy. Peter’s struggling to breathe, but Matt’s exaggerated breaths and steadier heartbeat help his lungs untangle themselves. Peter closes his eyes, and breathes in the scent of coffee, pine, and vanilla.
Peter’s reminded of Uncle Ben, and that makes him cry harder.
The adrenaline keeping him going has long fizzled out, and Peter feels an overwhelming sense of safety. Safety, that Matt’s with him. Another stroke of his hair- rough sandpaper against soft clouds- and Peter droops further down into the lawyer's steady arms.
He doesn’t think about tonight, tomorrow, or next week- not any of that. He’ll just have to float by, and to learn to swim through it, because all that matters now is this moment, in Matt’s arms, letting out years of horrors and suffering. Early-evening light slips through the shutters, casting golden streaks across the grey floor, and the door swings softly back and forth, as a cold breeze wafts through the hallway. The blood glows, bright and innocent, staining and splattering Matt's work clothes. He still doesn't complain.
Peter may have gotten all-too used to the feeling of being unsatisfied, but for the time being, he feels a little more loved.