A/N : I'm aware that there's an issue at the moment with reviews not displaying, but I assure you that I'm receiving your reviews by email, and thanks for your encouragement as always.
3
Violet had left the bottle of nasty vodka behind. Peter considered it for the briefest of instants, thought of that morning after his fortieth birthday, and decided not to touch it after all. Comforting crying children was one of his specialities, but usually he felt genuinely bad for the child in question – this was totally different. This time, he was halfway sure he was only sticking around to make sure that Tate was good and upset, finding the thought oddly satisfying. That wasn't like him, he knew, and truthfully the other half of his being really did want to help. He'd sat for what felt like a long while listening to the sobs and sniffles from beside him, kept his hands fastened around his knees, stared out into the ocean and tried to rationalise exactly how his night had ended up this way, with a crying spree-killer sat beside him seeming to edge a little closer to his body until their shoulders were touching. At last the sobbing had eased off, seeming to have blown over like a summer storm, leaving behind silence and misery in its wake that was broken when Tate had asked
"Why'd you hit me? I never did anything to you"
"Apart from call me a pussy"
"Well…. Yeah, apart from that"
Peter sighed again, stared at the sand between his feet, anywhere but at the damp, puffy dark eyes that were regarding him from under a messy tangle of dark blonde curls. In all honesty, that really wasn't enough to provoke him. He heard worse from his wife on a daily basis, had grown up with insults being a favoured method of communication between himself and his sisters, would not have risen to it if he hadn't already been in a high state of emotional arousal – and anger was easier to deal with than fear.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, risked a glance, the black eye now almost gone, "I did try to go easy on you"
"It's fine, I'm getting used to punches. Besides you look a lot worse than me," he tried out a little smile, half a weak little effort that somehow only made him look more sad, "Vi has a hell of a kick on her"
Peter had to agree, gingerly feeling the sore patch on his cheekbone that was now radiating achy little tendrils all the way up to his eyebrow. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with an impressive black eye himself from that, wondered if he'd tell the team he'd been kicked in the face by a teenage girl or make up some less embarrassing accident. Like running into a lamp-post again. Beside him, Tate had reached for the bottle and unscrewed the cap, taking several big gulps and again offering it over.
"Really, no thanks. Made myself really ill one time – keep drinking like that and you'll soon find out why I stopped"
Tate shrugged morosely, took another drink. Outside of the house with its heavy atmosphere, he seemed a lot less creepy. A lot more like the vulnerable, hurting kid Peter had originally taken him for. Though he tried to dismiss the thought, he reminded him of himself at that age, looked uncomfortable in his own skin with something dark and raw glinting in those eyes that were too much like his own. They stayed quiet a while, watching the waves lap at the shore, night breeze stirring both their hair into further disarray, until Peter had at last said
"Why did you kill those kids, Tate? Did they do something to you?"
The other boy didn't look up, shook his head
"It seemed like the right thing to do" he said quietly, "This world… it's such an ugly shitshow, man. I didn't want to live in it. Thought they would be better off out of it"
"And that justifies a massacre in your head?" Peter asked incredulously, "You've got serious problems dude. Nothing justifies that"
"The fuck would you know?" Tate bit back, at last looked at him, "You've probably never felt that way in your life. I bet you had a nice little family and a nice little house and a nice boring little life and you never had to think about all that crap, too busy getting along with your life and staying on that narrow track people laid for you"
"I'd be very careful who you say that to. For your information, my life was a long way from perfect but somehow *I* refrained from shooting up my school. You're not the only one with problems, you selfish little shit"
"Oh really? What was so bad for you then? Why are you so qualified to tell me what's right and wrong?" He took another long drink, Peter didn't caution him this time. Let the brat make himself sick if he wanted, "What makes you so much better than me?"
"You know, it's strange, but I really don't feel like sharing my problems with a dumb little asshole who thinks he's doing people a favour by *killing* them" Peter growled, "But let's start with knowing what it's like to feel different, and having just a little experience of how crappy the world can be, shall we? And I'm no better than you, I just have a little more control over myself than you do"
As if to prove his point, Tate had abruptly dropped the sarcastic glare he had been wearing and instead, Peter could see tears standing in his eyes again. Angry tears now, but still there nonetheless.
"Seriously? You're crying *again*?" he rolled his eyes, "It's no wonder that Violet girl didn't want to be near you if all you ever do is weep on her"
Even as he said it Peter felt like a huge hypocrite, knowing that he still did more than his fair share of getting wound up and crying on people, and that at Tate's age he'd been even worse. The boy didn't reply, and Peter finally succumbed to the part of himself that really didn't like to see people upset, hardly believing he was doing it but nevertheless putting an arm across Tate's back and patting his shoulder kindly. This time he didn't dissolve into full-body sobbing, but sat staring at the sand as fat droplets of saltwater ran down his face, steadily working his way down the bottle of vodka. By the time he spoke again there was a noticeable slur in his voice.
"I don't blame you for punching me y'know" he said, kept his head hung low, "I would, I guess. It helps when people do that"
"Do what? Punch you in the face?"
"Yeah," another sad little smile, "I let the kids I killed beat me up one time. I think it helped them move on. And other people I hurt too – they've all had a turn. Maybe if I let them punish me, eventually it'll help them get better"
"What about you though?" Peter asked, "How are you going to get better?"
He felt the shrug, a hopeless little gesture that seemed born out of absolute defeat, and suddenly felt sorry for ever thinking that there was nothing there but a murderer. Realised that just as nobody had ever tried to understand Tate when he was alive, nobody had ever given him half a chance in death either. Wondered what he himself would have turned out like if nobody had been there for him, if he'd just stayed isolated and scared and desperately wanting to be part of the world but not having the faintest idea how to go about that. Tightened his grip a little and felt the little blonde head roll over to rest on his shoulder.
"Maybe you need to stop punishing yourself for that to happen?" he suggested.
