Work Header

Lie still and maybe the world will pass

Work Text:

He knows the day is well past its turning point from the amount of light passing through the bed sheet. It should make him want to move, get up, go out, achieve. But it doesn't. He watches as the tiny world around him, marked by his bed cover, gets dimmer in increments until it's completely dark. Not really any point getting up now, is there. 

The air is stuffy but it doesn't matter, not enough to lift the cover for fresh air and let the rest of the world in with it, so it can swallow him whole or maybe just perch on top of his chest, cutting up the oxygen. Stuffy air is better than no air at all. He might have been hungry at a point but that's all gone too. The good thing about being a werewolf is he can sustain long without food or water. The good thing about being Peter Hale is he can do this for even longer by being completely still. 

He doesn't close his eyes though, not even in the dark when all he can faintly see is the texture of the fabric. He could sleep, could have slept the entire day, actually, but it's not why he's under the cover. If there is an actual reason to it he isn't aware of it. Maybe he ate something that didn't agree with him. Or read something that disturbed him. Maybe, maybe he started thinking about the point of his existence. Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares.

He thinks there might have been anxiety first, an uncomfortably familiar feeling of his skin crawling, but it has now turned to a serene numbness. If asked to describe it he would say it feels infinite, like an ocean or a sandy desert, endlessly moving toward the horizon and beyond. Sometimes he worries he might get lost or drown in it, but it's only because it feels so welcoming, like he could stay in it forever. It's always surprising when he doesn't.

He picks up a sound of the front door opening and all of a sudden the serenity begins to vaporize, turning to fear and worry and guilt. The sandy desert turns to quicksand. Why can't he get out of bed, why does he have to be so incompetent that he can't even govern his own moods, why does he have to be such a burden

He waits for the steps to come closer, for the bedroom door to open, for the inevitable disappointment. But the steps never do come any closer. He hears them around the apartment, the living room, the guest bathroom, the kitchen. Something smells good. It's food, Peter's stomach informs him, but it's still not enough to make him move. But he does begin to feel relaxed again and the serenity encloses him once more. Finally he closes his eyes and drifts into sleep.


It's morning again when he wakes up, the sun shining bright even through the fabric. This time the sheet feels to constricting, wrapped around his ankles and gluing to his sides. He lets the world in as he throws the cover off, swallowing large gulps of fresh air. It makes him dizzy so he sits still for awhile, the sheet wrapped around his waist, taking in his surroundings.

Everything is exactly the same, or rather, everything looks exactly the same. So that's what he does, he looks. He looks at the crispy-white sheets, the shadows under the dresser opposite to him, his hands, the outlines of his legs and feet under the sheet. He lifts his arms, slightly, and slides his hands up and down his forearms, rubbing the skin on his elbows. He moves his feet, carefully, until they're hooked close to his chest, the sheet pooling in his lap. Every movement is familiar and yet somehow foreign. 

The numbness is still there, making him feel like a stranger in his own skin, but today it doesn't confine him to bed. Sliding the sheet off he puts one feet on the floor, then the other. He rises off the bed and walks to the door in achingly slow movements, listening for any other sounds in the apartment.

By the time he reaches the door and steps into the corridor he knows the place is empty. He sniffs the air and follows his feet to the living room, the guest bathroom, the kitchen. On the table there is a hand written note that reminds him of the point of existence, his existence, even though he cannot completely grasp it yet. Maybe soon though.

He leaves the kitchen for the time being, knowing the note will there to remind him again, and settles in on the living room couch with his feet gathered close to his chest as he looks out into the world that yesterday seemed too much. After awhile his thought drift back to the note and the corners of Peter's mouth turn slightly upwards.


I made your favorite. L