Title: Festering Wounds
Length: 400 words
Rating/Genre: PG, gen
Characters: FYG Peter
Summary: In his self-imposed isolation, Peter's nights are long and boring. Part two in a series of drabbles set in the 5YG verse.
Notes: written for the heroes_contest drabble challenge #29: "Renegade".
"And in the war on terror, Mark Shivale has the latest news. Mark, what can you tell us about the this recent attack by the terrorist leader Hiro Nakamura and his band of renegades?"
After a moment's hesitation, Peter turned the channel. It was late at night and he was lounging on the sofa. His thumb stroked over the up and down arrow keys as he watched a commercial.
/Terrorist - a person who terrorizes or frightens others./
Peter's thumb continued stroking up and down. Up and down, feeling the tiny rubber buttons, firm and textured against his skin. He pressed.
"This is what Nakamura looks like with short hair and glasses. He is known to reside in the New York area, so if anyone..." Peter turned down the volume, put the remote down and got up, taking his drink with him.
/Renegade - A person who deserts and betrays an organization, country, or set of principles./
Needing answers, he had looked the words up once. In his boredom, Peter had turned to books and the internet. Months of confinement turned to years as he settled into a prison lifestyle of exercise, television, and reading. His self-imposed exile, the only penance he could give.
He walked past his bookcase on his way to the bedroom. This was all his life was now. He didn't deserve any better.
/Guilt - The fact of having committed a specified or implied offense or crime./
Habit made him look in on Niki, her blonde hair spilling across the satin pillows, one leg peaking out from beneath the sheet. Nothing inside him stirred at the sight of bared flesh. And he was glad as ever that her pill would keep her out till noon.
Peter hardly ever slept anymore. A few hours around dawn, maybe. Hot and uncomfortable in a bed that was too soft with a woman who, after all this time, still didn't smell like home. But that was good. He didn't want a home.
He poured himself another bitter drink and then wandered back to the sofa. Hiro and his younger self's image were gone now, so Peter let the memories sweep in, harsh and unrestrained.
Memories were funny things. Sometimes, in the darkest part of night, if Peter drank enough, he could remember intoxication. If only he couldn't heal.
*Damn Texas.*
Peter knew how better everything would be if he had never healed.