Work Text:
God was supposed to answer prayers. That was what his preacher told him. And Peter had prayed so hard. It was the first thing he did in the morning, and the first thing he did at night: beseech God for her wellness. He knew that so many people have died from this, but not her. It wasn’t supposed to touch her.
So he wondered what he had done wrong when he sat at her bedside, looking into those eyes, still brown and warm like hot chocolate despite being jaundiced and heavy with exhaustion. God was supposed to protect His most devout, but here she was, smiling and reaching out a weak hand, skin papery and webbed with dark veins, to stroke Peter’s hair.
Peter felt his lip tremble, a sob trapped in his chest. “Marion…?”
No, not this, either…