( Peter doesn't know how he ends up out here on the shoreline, far away from the safety of the Gaze townhouse. Far from everything. The ghosts have come up and out, and he lets them take him; they use him to wander, quiet and soft. He's nothing, he's fog, he's empty.
By the time he's Peter again, soaked through from rain, the thing on the beach has mostly melted away.
He can smell it, though, and he's leaning over as he stumbles against the black sands. A harsh gag forces its way from his throat, wrenching it up and downwards again, painfully. His eyes burn with hot moisture. Everything in him knows to turn and run away from whatever thing lies there in a heated mist, deteriorating. Something dead and rotting; he can't handle it. He can't see it. Dead, rotting things; in his mind, he hears the buzzing drone of so many flies and he feels sick.
....But something within him knows otherwise. Something ancient and knowing of things Peter can't possibly understand on his own: it recognises the particular smell of this blood, acidic and floral. But even before it knows the familiarity of that, it knows other things. The shape, the energy, of a small-framed boy with wide eyes β hopeful, mostly. Sad, often.
Peter understands, on a level that is nothing human, who's lying in that pile of steaming mist, seconds before he even sees the body. Then he does. Something small and unmoving, a dark lump there in the middle of the nightmarish fog left from dissolved flesh and feathers.
He thinks he can see something there in the grass, somewhere over there in the dark, through the rearview mirror. His eyes snap up β he thinks he sees it, the shape of it, or is it in his mind? She's in two piecesβ
Peter cries out, quietly. It's so softly, it's barely audible at all. Just a little noise. His legs brush against themselves, almost tripping him up as he fumbles forwards. This isn't real, he thinks. This is a dream. Another dream. He'll wake up β sweating, panting, teary-eyed, like always.
But it isn't a dream. This nightmare is a very real thing. He knows that, too. Understands it. Understands that maybe everything has been building towards this. And yet he's still in a pained disbelief as he draws nearer to The Body and sees it's too less of a body at all, that it's incomplete, that it'sβ
He thinks he hears himself saying "help" out loud. No one will help. No one's around. Like then, he's alone. Like then, he's unable to breathe; his mouth opens and closes and he's giving strange little strained noises.
Unlike then, he stays.
He's on his knees. Close to the mist, but it burns; he can't get too close at all. Still, he's.... reaching, trying to. He thinks of drawing the small cloaked body to him, limp and heavy, holding it to his chest the way he held Charlie when she was so small and afraid. He can't, he can't; he's curling up on his side, cheek pressed against the hard wet sand, mouth straining open in a silent cry. It hurts. It hurts so much that he doesn't know how he can still be alive, he thinks he should be dead. He should be the one. Not Falco. Not him, no, pleaseβ
βis this what it's all come to? Is this what the Reckoning has decided for his punishment? There's an M seared into Peter's palm for the little bird he once left, and abandoned, and broke.
He stays there, for maybe hours and hours. He won't leave him. He won't leave this broken bird. )
(backdated) just an unnecessarily indulgent reaction for some pain π
By the time he's Peter again, soaked through from rain, the thing on the beach has mostly melted away.
He can smell it, though, and he's leaning over as he stumbles against the black sands. A harsh gag forces its way from his throat, wrenching it up and downwards again, painfully. His eyes burn with hot moisture. Everything in him knows to turn and run away from whatever thing lies there in a heated mist, deteriorating. Something dead and rotting; he can't handle it. He can't see it. Dead, rotting things; in his mind, he hears the buzzing drone of so many flies and he feels sick.
....But something within him knows otherwise. Something ancient and knowing of things Peter can't possibly understand on his own: it recognises the particular smell of this blood, acidic and floral. But even before it knows the familiarity of that, it knows other things. The shape, the energy, of a small-framed boy with wide eyes β hopeful, mostly. Sad, often.
Peter understands, on a level that is nothing human, who's lying in that pile of steaming mist, seconds before he even sees the body. Then he does. Something small and unmoving, a dark lump there in the middle of the nightmarish fog left from dissolved flesh and feathers.
He thinks he can see something there in the grass, somewhere over there in the dark, through the rearview mirror. His eyes snap up β he thinks he sees it, the shape of it, or is it in his mind? She's in two piecesβ
Peter cries out, quietly. It's so softly, it's barely audible at all. Just a little noise. His legs brush against themselves, almost tripping him up as he fumbles forwards. This isn't real, he thinks. This is a dream. Another dream. He'll wake up β sweating, panting, teary-eyed, like always.
But it isn't a dream. This nightmare is a very real thing. He knows that, too. Understands it. Understands that maybe everything has been building towards this. And yet he's still in a pained disbelief as he draws nearer to The Body and sees it's too less of a body at all, that it's incomplete, that it'sβ
He thinks he hears himself saying "help" out loud. No one will help. No one's around. Like then, he's alone. Like then, he's unable to breathe; his mouth opens and closes and he's giving strange little strained noises.
Unlike then, he stays.
He's on his knees. Close to the mist, but it burns; he can't get too close at all. Still, he's.... reaching, trying to. He thinks of drawing the small cloaked body to him, limp and heavy, holding it to his chest the way he held Charlie when she was so small and afraid. He can't, he can't; he's curling up on his side, cheek pressed against the hard wet sand, mouth straining open in a silent cry. It hurts. It hurts so much that he doesn't know how he can still be alive, he thinks he should be dead. He should be the one. Not Falco. Not him, no, pleaseβ
βis this what it's all come to? Is this what the Reckoning has decided for his punishment? There's an M seared into Peter's palm for the little bird he once left, and abandoned, and broke.
He stays there, for maybe hours and hours. He won't leave him. He won't leave this broken bird. )