Hello, reader who stumbled onto my story. Enjoy le angst!
Peter watched from a distance, replaying the night's events in his head on repeat, while his father spoke in hushed tones with the man in scrubs. He curled in his chair, watching as the features on his Papa's face deepen with panic and fear. He couldn't hear what the scrub man was saying, he didn't want to know. He knew enough, just enough, to want to disappear.
They were at the hospital, his Pa and him, waiting for just the slightest amount of good news. However, hope was quickly fading if it hadn't already. Each passing minute felt like a decade, and Peter decided that if Dad died tonight, it really was his fault.
Pa tried hard to hide the emotions, hide the grief that wrecked his chest, but Peter could see it. He saw a tear slide down his father's face. He saw the shudder of his body. Peter watched as Pa's muscles flexed underneath the fabric in his shirt. He wondered if the feeling his Pa was feeling, was the same as his. He wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to bruise his knuckles, feel pain underneath his skin because any pain would feel better than the anguish.
"It's not your fault," Pa said, wiping his face unsuccessfully. "It's not your fault." Pa dropped his face in hands, rocking forward and nearly falling from the chair. Peter swallowed hard, reaching for him. Instead, he hesitated and pulled away. Was Pa saying that to Peter, or to himself?
"Pa?"
"It's not your fault," Pa repeated regretfully. Peter hadn't cried all night. Not after the fight between him and his dad, not after his dad's sorry apology, not after he walked out, and not after he got the call that Tony Rodgers-Stark had been rear-ended by a drunk semi-truck driver. He hadn't cried yet, but when his dad bawled the last "it's not your fault," Peter's tears broke.
His face reddened with shame, and his lungs shrunk and twisted as whole new kind of pain gripped him by the throat and squeezed. Peter grieved in silence, watching his father almost convulse, still clutching Dad's black overcoat.
"It is my fault," Peter choked. He wished frantically for Pa to turn to him again, remind him one last time that it wasn't Peter's fault that Dad was dying on a gurney. It wasn't his fault that Dad was tied up to monitors, that he was tethered to gloved hands that would either save him or kill him. He wanted to be reminded that, despite running away after the argument, after forcing Dad to get in his car to look for him, after forcing him in front of a drunk driver, Peter wanted to be reminded that it wasn't his fault. Pa still loved him.
"Pa?" But Pa only began praying. He didn't look to Peter, didn't reach for him. When Peter tried to kneel in front of him, offering some show of support, Pa turned away and Peter's breath hitched.
You never trust me! For once just fucking trust me! I do everything to please you, and make you happy! Fuck you! Fuck you! Go find a new son! I'm done! I can't make you fucking happy, so go find a new son!
Peter struggled to breathe, frozen as life kept going around him. Out of the corner of his eye, a woman wrung her hands, taking a ring on off her ring finger before returning it. Ahead of him, a nurse and another scrub bickered, tossing papers back and forth at each other. Behind him, Peter heard sniffling, fits of coughing, apologizing, and a single mutter of, "Gross." And beside him, his father continued praying, his tears staining the jacket, his body still rocking.
A heavy breath filled his needy lungs, his head dizzy for much-needed oxygen. He felt his body temperature rise, as the air around him began to chill him. Breathe.
Peter launched, searching for the nearest closet, bathroom, anywhere he could hide. And when he did, he collapsed, now wrecked with inhuman grief that he couldn't withhold. He wailed, slamming his head into a wall, punching the ground, punching his thigh, slamming his shins into the bars of the wire shelf. Physical pain quieted the war in his ribcage, helped to dull the sharp stab of remorse. Peter finally slammed his knuckles into a sharp bit of the shelves, tearing open the flesh between his middle and forefinger. He cried out, yanking his hand close to his chest. He clenched his fingers together.
Blood trailed down his arm, washing his skin with warm, god-made red paint. He swore, slamming his head one more time before getting to his feet. He peeked out the door of his hiding spot. A nurse burst past, nearly catching the handle with her handle. She squealed, staggering towards the opposite side of the hall.
"I'm sorry!" Peter gasped, reaching for her, only retract away in pain. The woman gaped, grappling onto Peter's shoulders. Peter watched as she attained a towel from the closet and wrapped his hand.
"What happened to you?" She demanded.
"Accident." He hissed as the nurse applied heavy pressure to his cut. The nurse met his eyes.
"Hold on, you're that Peter kid, the kid whose father was in a car accident." She blinked, still dumbstruck. Peter turned his face downwards, eyeing the blood that spread through the towel. "Did you try to kill yourself?"
"The lack of compassion in your voice is comforting," he sneered. He tore his hands away from her, heading back to the waiting room.
"You need to go the emergency room Kid!"
"I'm fine." But blood dripped to the floor and onto his clothes. It looked like a lot of blood. It didn't take a doctor to know you needed your blood inside your body, not outside.
"Damn it." He heard the woman exclaimed. "If you go to the emergency room, I'll give you more information on your father's status.
"Tell me now."
"After. Let's go."
Peter allowed her to guide them, his hand feeling heavier and heavier, like a bag full of sand. The more he thought about it, the worse the pain started to feel. The nurse had been quick to find the on-the-floor surgeon, who proceeded to find a bed for him. The nurse was just about to leave his side when he barked at her.
"Wait, you promised answers."
"Yeah, there's your answer." She turned her eyes up to the surgeon man working the towel from around his hand. "I'm going to get your other dad. I'll be right back." She offered a reassuring smile, before running and disappearing into the moving crowd of patients, doctors, and other nurses.
Peter turned his attention the man in front of him.
"So? My father; is his going to be okay?" Peter pleaded, wincing as the man cleaned his cut with alcohol.
"Tony Rodgers-Stark?" He asked calmly. His eyes were soft and forgiving as he worked the path the cut lead. "His vitals were bottoming out, they continue to bottom out. If it continues, the doctor in charge of his case will be forced to put him in an induced coma. With any hope, your father will heal some, grow stronger, before the next surgery."
"And the damages?" Peter fought the tears threatening to fall.
"Minor damages include a broken rib, broken wrist, popped hip-"
"Damn it! Is he going to die?" Peter snapped, his anguish getting the best of him. The doctor had an intake of breath before he worked an IV into Peter's forearm.
"Your father sustained major blows to his head. Shrapnel embedded his chest and abdomen, and a few pieces lodged themselves right next to his heart." The doctor froze in his motions before he met Peter's gaze. "I can assure you, our doctors are the most talented in the state and are doing everything they can to keep him alive."
Peter bowed his head, wanting to punch the shelves again and tear a whole new hole open.
"Did you mean to hurt yourself, Peter?" The doctor asked. Peter shook his head.
"It was my fault." Peter wept, pain in his hand forgotten. It was all his fault. The argument, the car accident, his father dying; it was all his fault.
He was dizzy when the doctor finally stitched him back up. The doctor apologized quietly, retreating back to his job. Peter couldn't tell if the numbness in his hand and chest was the drugs, but he welcomed it desperately. When Pa appeared, he could barely keep his head up.
"Oh Peter," his father cried, pulling Peter's weighted head into his chest. Peter lazily hung on, clinging to Pa like a life force. "What did you do?"
Peter didn't answer. Instead, he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of his Pa's arms and the dancing lights past his eyelids.
"Mr. Rodgers, I have news on your husband."
"Yes?"
"Your husband is sustained. We're going to keep him under, to quicken the healing process, but Mr. Rodgers I advise to prepare yourself for worst."
Hope you enjoyed the story! Constructive criticism is welcomed!
