Chapter Text
When Peter wakes, his room is nearly pitch black except for the street light that filters through his window, displaying the fluorescent light in a strip on the floor of his bedroom. Peeking out the window, he can still see the faint glow from the sun while the sky shifts from yellow and red hues to a dark grey. Glancing back at his alarm clock next to him, he sees 8:41 pm.
Wow, he must have really needed the rest.
The worst part is he still feels just as exhausted and sore as he did when he crashed into bed. He’s drained when he finally drags himself to an upright position and scrubs his hand up and down his face, trying to rub the sleep away from his eyes. The arm he had been lying on in his sleep still tingles and feels sluggish as he moves it.
His attempt leaves his vision clear but does nothing for his clouded mind. He just slowly looks around his room while his mind catches up to the fact that he's awake. Changing his focus onto different items in his dark bedroom, Peter finally settles on a stack of chemistry books on the wooden floor, partially illuminated; the person on the top book’s cover still smiles back at him while holding a beaker. Just the thought of school pulls Peter’s face into a grimace. He doesn't think he could do it. Pretend like his life isn't over, like his whole world didn't end the moment he knew his whole family was dead. He couldn't just keep building up something for the future after that.
How can he even think about the future right now?
What was he gonna do now?
He blinked away his tears as his vision got too blurry to focus on that person’s shining smile. He turned his head away.
Deciding he doesn't need that reminder right now, he moved his legs off the bed and shuffled forward a few steps, just enough to bend down and flip the top book to only show the backside of the book. This really doesn't hinder it from Peter’s mind; rather a poor attempt to conceal another reminder of his life at the moment. He feels the movement sharply in his right leg, pulling and tugging as his nerves remember the healing injury.
As if on cue, a loud rumble echoes through the silent bedroom, the sound instinctively prompting Peter’s body to find food to further sustain itself. Finding an immediate task to do that he can actually do to solve one of his problems, he makes his way out of his room and down the stairs. When he makes it to the kitchen, it's still dark, just like he left it last night or in the early hours of the morning. Bitterly, Peter knows nothing has changed in the room since that time has passed. He closes the fabric curtains hanging above the windows in hopes of keeping any of his kind but watchful neighbors off his back. Hopefully none of them got a glimpse of his impromptu wound stapling during his last visit to the room.
He finally flips on the light switch for the single hanging light above the sink; it doesn't fully light up all corners of the room as the other ceiling lights in the room would do, but casts enough light to show Peter the room. He feels like he hasn't eaten in weeks, though he knows that can't be true. Hoping to ease his ravenous stomach, he walks over and opens the refrigerator and freezer doors, seeing both his options quickly. It's mostly ingredients as well as some food items like leftovers from his mother cooking spaghetti a couple of days ago. He also sees a tub of chocolate ice cream alongside other frozen food items.
Chocolate ice cream was always his little brother's favorite ice cream.
Deciding on the frozen dessert, Peter takes it out and grabs a spoon from a certain drawer in the cabinet. He sets the tub next to some random pieces of mail piled up on the kitchen island; rounding the counter, he moves to sit in one of the accompanying seats at the island. He starts spooning the ice cream out of the container; it's rich and smooth, with the sweetness tying the taste all together. Frankie always begged to get it on outings or on their way home, so his mom must have gotten it just so he could have it while we were home. He starts crying now, but he continues his repetitive motions of eating. No matter how blurry his vision gets, he keeps quietly eating.
Through teary eyes, the cabinet above the fridge gains his attention; he knows exactly what's in there. The doors to the cabinet peacefully loom over him, peering down at him. He'd seen his parents open it occasionally, but he still knew exactly what the contents of that particular cabinet were.
He doesn't get up and open those doors, but the thought crosses his mind while he continues his task of eating. Distantly, he knows how cold what he's consuming is, and how it hurts his teeth the more he eats it, and how it's making him feel chillier despite the fair temperature of the room. He keeps eating until he doesn't have ice cream on the spoon anymore and the tubs are empty.
It doesn't make him feel any closer to his brother; he still sits there by himself by the kitchen island.
His tears freely fall as he gets up and looks for something else in the fridge just to be actively doing something; he doesn't even feel full. He numbly pulls out one of the tomatoes stored on the middle shelf of the fridge. He eats it as well. It's bitter and acidic, but he still eats it. He knows his sister would be a little disgusted seeing him eat a tomato like an apple.
It's just food; why can't he stop thinking about his family?
Food that was thoughtfully purchased or prepared with him or his siblings in mind.
Food that they will never eat again.
The cabinet still looms above, not shifting or moving, still pristinely remaining closed. Patiently waiting to be opened just like all the other cabinets in the kitchen.
Peter gathers the empty tub of ice cream from the counter and the dishes that occupy the table, the same ones that were left behind on the table yesterday morning; he tosses the tub away as he passes the trash bin. His tears have ceased now, just leaving his eyes dry; his face feels stiff, and the skin around his eyes is crusty from his dried-up salty tear tracks. Mindlessly, he rinses off the dishes and cleans them up of any residual food crumbs left on the plates before setting them down in the dishwasher and turning it on.
He pointedly doesn’t look at that particular cabinet again on his way out on his path back upstairs.
He drags himself back to bed and lets himself sleep longer and longer. He wakes up twice during this time but doesn't move to get up, choosing to lie there until he eventually falls asleep again. When his stomach protests against him. Peter finally gets up, and just like the previous day, Peter drags himself along, completing small tasks. He prepares a meal big enough to sustain his appetite. He eats his meal all alone.
When Peter gets around to taking care of his wounds again, he unravels the white wrappings to see that the wounds look significantly better.
Well, the one on his leg does; the opening is closed now. The wound looks like a scabby raised line on both sides, still healing but looks like it doesn't need the sutures or the staple holding it closed. The one on his head looks a little more recovered than last time, but mostly the absent bruising on his face is the reason for that effect. The wound looks red and painful. Leaving his wounds open to the air for a second, he walks to his room and retrieves a pair of pliers and scissors to take care of the no longer needed leg piercings.
He goes back to the bathroom, probably not the best sterile environment, but it has a mirror so…
He uses the scissors to cut the knots of the sutures on both sides of the wound. After that, Peter positions the pliers to slide the suture line out of his leg; while there's a little discomfort, it doesn't hurt nearly as much as him stapling his leg closed did. This gives him hope that removing the staple won't be as bad if the sutures are going this well.
He digs at the thin metal staple in the back of his leg, trying to get leverage on it. He bites down as he keeps attempting it; after a few seconds, he finally gets a hold of it and sharply pulls it out; pulling it out doesn't hurt at all, which Peter is very grateful for. Maybe his dad was on to something here. The two spots where the staple was in his skin are just barely welling up with blood.
Deciding that the small red dots don't warrant a roll of bandages, he just sticks a band-aid on top of it.
While Peter was able to do this by himself, it still feels raw, like the chasm in his life. He had to do this by himself because there is no one else.
If you asked anyone what kind of kid Peter Castle was, well, the answer would probably vary.
His friends would probably describe him as a happy person. Always going on and on about different topics, always grinning at his classmates, offering to help where he can.
His dad would probably say he’s a strong kid, always keeping his head up even when his father was overseas, giving him updates on things around the house in letters. He would talk about Peter being brave for his siblings despite having his own fears. Sharing stories like when he was eight and afraid of the dark but put on a brave face for his little sister, leading the way for her through the darkness on some family outing. That story his dad has told his uncle Bill many times, and his uncle has brought it up so many times after that; the story’s retelling would make Peter roll his eyes every time.
Well, his mother would say something about how he’s so bright, even calling him sunshine reincarnate jokingly on occasion, usually earning a huff from him. She would dote on and on about the fact that he was always so thoughtful towards his family, doing small things for the ones closest to him, which would earn another huff from him.
And his siblings wouldn’t agree with the sunshine statement. They were more likely to call him annoying most of the time. Though it was very hard to catch him in a bad mood when around his brother or sister. He would always take the higher road when it came to disagreements, carrying on and not taking it to heart. Which would make them even madder at times, and he would always find himself chuckling at that.
Well, that doesn't matter now.
Peter doesn't feel like that kid anymore.
How can his whole life be uprooted by a singular day?
He's the only surviving Castle, but he feels more like a ghost than his family does to him. Haunting the house filled with the only remnants of his family. Clutter from daily life with them still decorates every inch of the house. He finds himself wandering aimlessly at times, with no set destination. No task he brings upon himself, no motive, just taking it step by step, looking at motionless signs of life around the house.
It doesn't matter how much you love someone if you still fail them when it matters most. He should have gotten Frankie away or shielded him. He should have told his mom he didn't want to go to the carousel that day; he shouldn't have left his parents and Lisa to go get drinks.
He failed.
And he doesn't have a time machine.
He doesn’t have a quick fix for this.
His realisation feels like silence. It's the same silence that has surrounded him since he got home. It climbs up his throat, suffocating him. It's all he can hear, all he can feel. He hates how it's made a home in his body. Curling up in his insides, rooting in his lungs.
It's just quiet.
Well, it is until Peter hears a knock on the front door.
He freezes in place and tries his best to listen for any signs of the door opening or someone attempting to come inside. He finds it hard to concentrate over his booming heart and static-filled ears. He takes a deep breath and holds it, then exhales, letting himself repeat this action a few times. He creeps forward out of the upstairs bathroom and towards the front entryway as his hearing returns to him. He doesn't hear anyone enter the house, but he still keeps his footsteps quiet as he makes his way to the front door. Peering through the peephole, he sees a mail carrier’s back retreating down the pathway to his house.
Oh, it must be Thursday. His mom and dad subscribed to a newspaper service after the Battle of New York just to know more about what was happening around the city. It must be pretty early in the morning for it to be delivered just now.
Well, Peter really wouldn't know. Keeping track of the calendar or the position of the sun hasn't been a priority in his mind.
He doesn't open the door until he sees the carrier has made their way down the street to the next house on their list. He cracks the door open; after undoing the locks he’d made sure were in place the other day, it creaks at the action. Keeping his body indoors, he bends down and scoops up the thick folded papers in his outstretched hand. Leaving the welcome mat in front of the door, empty in the papers' absence. He stands up quickly after retrieving the papers and resecures the door. He makes his way back to the kitchen, sets the hand-delivered item down on the table like usual. After his scare about the knock, his mouth feels like sand. He decides to get a drink to treat his parched mouth. Getting a glass and filling it from the sink, he settles back into his seat at the table. There are really no assigned seats anymore, but he still sticks to the routine of it.
Wanting a little bit of normalcy, Peter unfolds the newspaper, hoping to learn about some meaningless thing happening around the city. Something outside of the walls of this house, outside of the quiet in his life. Just something to distract him.
He mostly reads through the different columns of the newspaper, skimming until he gets to a yellow section labeled Central War. He doesn't think much of it at first, but as he reads, he realizes exactly what is being written about in this column. He breathes in sharply, hitching and stuttering out. He knows exactly what it's talking about because Peter was there. A shootout in Central Park, but the paper doesn't mention him or his family; in fact, it says no civilians were killed or, at the very least, injured. His face is pale, and his lips are pulled into a tight line. However, it does mention the people who gunned down his family. Three gangs who couldn't keep their bullets in their guns long enough to complete whatever deal they were trying to make. Letting bullets fly towards civilians with no part in their stupid affairs.
The Dogs of Hell, the Mexican cartel, and the Irish mafia. They’re the ones who killed Peter’s family, their the ones who gunned down his innocent family at the carousel.
The district attorney must have something to do with this as well; she knew about him and his family, yet there's nothing about them here. The paper even highlights that no one but the gangs involved were hurt. He knew something was gonna happen to him in that hospital room. That sharp, tingling feeling he had that day had woken him up, hadn't it?
Oh god werent they trying to inject him with something?
He doesn't know if she's a part of one of the gangs listed here or if she had some other part in what happened at the park, but he's certainly glad he listened to his gut.
Why would she want to get rid of him?
Peter isn't sure of that right now, but he has a place to start.
While Peter knows he's not innocent in his family’s murder, he knows he’s going to do everything in his power to make sure that the Dogs of Hell, the Mexican cartel, and the Irish mafia aren't able to do this again to anyone else’s family. Just like he should have done at the park, Peter is going to save people by putting a stop to their violence.