Peter doesn't have nightmares.
He just doesn't.
When he wakes in the middle of the night, coated in a sheen of cold sweat; when his eyes are too wide as he stares at the ceiling; when his heart threatens to burst through his ribs; when his pulse pounds in his ears, he tells himself that he does not have nightmares.
Just a bad dream, he tells himself after every episode, clinging stubbornly to the idea just as tightly as he wraps his arms around his chest. Because bad dreams mean you're stressed out or ate too-spicy foods too soon before bed. Nightmares mean that you're eight years old again and somehow managed to watch part of A Nightmare on Elm Street and need Mom to tell you that Freddy Krueger isn't real and that he won't find you in your sleep. Nightmares mean you're terrified and out of control.
Peter is in control, he tells himself. Peter is in control, and he doesn't need anyone's help.
He doesn't need help, and he doesn't have nightmares, he insists. He has dreams, bad ones, of an explosion of violet light, blinding and deafening. He dreams, badly, of purple flames searing him from the inside out, even as a howling wind freezes his skin. He dreams of watching the ash of what was once his flesh blacken and flake off and drift away, of seeing the light burst through the surface of his skin, following the lines of what used to be his veins, racing up along his arms and chest and neck until all the only thing in his vision is light.
He dreams of agony, burning agony, of being ripped apart and crushed at the same time. He screams and screams and words never come, but in his mind he pleads and begs to die, but he can't, and he's freezing and burning, and there are no hands, this time, no hands to grasp his or anchor him or share this pain and please let me die please God please let me die someone help me it hurts so much, I can't do this anymore please I can't I can't I-
The words never come. Neither does help.
And whoever told him that you don't feel pain in dreams can go fuck themselves.
And even as he begs for release, he dreams of seeing the building blocks of the universe. He can see the entire galaxy in his mind, he can see every star and planet and asteroid and puny, disgusting little life form as plainly as he sees the Stone pulsating in his hand. He dreams of power and of certainty - a terrible certainty - that he could grasp the galaxy by its seams and tear it apart with a flick of his wrists.
In his dreams, his screams and the howling wind and the crackling of purple flame are mere background noise to the voice whispering in his ear, telling him, You are powerful.
And Peter has never felt powerful, never in his entire life. Never, until this moment. It's intoxicating.
It would be so easy, it purrs.
In his dreams his body is pulled apart and pressure holds him together, and he's freezing and burning and dying but he won't die, and he ends the world.
He ends the universe.
He is powerful.
When he wakes, he trembles and pants for breath and stares at the ceiling. Bad dream, he tells himself when he can think again. And he knows it's a bad dream, because he doesn't cry out and dramatically sit up in bed like they do in movies or on TV. He doesn't head to the bathroom to splash cool water on his face. He doesn't weep or yell or thrash.
Every time he wakes, he's silent and still. Bad dream, bad dream. He doesn't seek the others, doesn't reach out blindly for help.
Bad dream, he insists. Not a nightmare.
I don't have nightmares.
He pretends, because he's no longer a child. He hasn't been a child for twenty-six years, and no one will help him chase away the monsters whispering to him in the shadows.
He pretends, because sometimes when he's alone and adrenaline pumps in his system, when his pulse is pounding in his ears as he fights some would-be slavers – or their bounty-of-the-week or some thugs who thought he'd be an easy mark – sometimes purple light creeps into the edges of his vision, glows beneath the surface of his skin, pulses along with the blood pumping in his veins.
You could be powerful.
The voice continues to purr its siren song long after the adrenaline has faded, as he stands over the bodies of his assailants, and for a moment - too long, please, please, it hurts, let me go - his body burns.
He pretends, because he's terrified and out of control and has no idea what to do.
Bad dream, he tells himself as he clutches at his chest and wills the light to fade from his vision. I don't have nightmares.