Work Text:
"So, Robin, Bandersnatch, any good?"
"This is hard to say because, as you may know, the original author of this game was killed in a tragic accident."
"Indeed."
"But, it's just not a good game... it seems someone else finished it off quickly, but it's just abrupt and jarring... and unnecessary, and horrible, and violent, unsettling, and weird, and awful, and scary, and dark, and bleak and creepy..."
CRASH!
The bottle shattered the moment that it hit the small television, and the explosion left glass all over the wooden floors. But it didn't matter, if it quieted the voices in and out of Peter's head. All of the whiskey that he needed was in the glass in front of him.
Four months. He had waited four months to hear his son's last earthly contribution reduced to nothing but an unsettling pile of shit. They had reduced Stefan's creation to ash, much like those in the urn sitting on his bedside table. That was alright, wasn't it? It was time. Peter had waited four months for the MicroPlay review. He'd given himself that long.
His work contract was done and Peter had chosen not to renew it. He had sold most of his belongings, save the work uniforms and Stefan's belongings and his safe and desk. The notes had been written. One for his former boss. For the bartender at the local pub. One for his in-laws, though they were far too senile by now to truly understand them, and his own parents had been dead and gone since he was a teenager. There was a note for Dr. Haynes.
There was a note for Colin Ritman, too: an amalgamation of every frustration that Peter had wanted to take out on himself. For four months, he had added to the letter every single time that the knife was twisted deeper into his chest, and every time that he passed his son's room -- untouched since he had received the phone call from the police that night, and since he had gone to identify his boy's dead and mangled body.
Peter added to the note every time he heard anything to do with Tuckersoft.
As he stood from the sofa, Peter found his way to the kitchen blindly, and opened the drawer nearest to the microwave. His envelopes were showing signs of wear and tear now, and the scribbled pen on each and every one of them was smeared. But they needed to be ready.
People needed to know why. And no matter how much Peter tried to think back to his old coping mechanisms, his mind returned back to the same thought: his reason for living had always been Stefan.
It didn't matter how often they fought, it didn't matter how often Stefan's cries of I hate you met Peter's ears, and it didn't matter how many of Stefan's psychotic episodes left him hardly even knowing who his father was. Each and every time, they had pulled through. They made up. Stefan got better, and Peter regained his place in his life and they stabilized.
For four months, Peter came home to an empty house. For four months, he sat in silence. The frosties in the kitchen went uneaten. The computer went unused. Stefan's bedroom went untouched. Logic and reasoning went unused each and every single time that Peter had instinctively called Stefan's name or saw his own shadow out of the corner of his eye.
The only thing that had been used whatsoever was the whiskey. It had started as a way to quell his own emotions the first few nights, but it slowly but surely became more. Just one more shot. Just one more sip. Just one night less of sleep and one more minute of picturing Stefan's body on the medical examiner's table.
(Dr. Haynes had spoken more than once about Stefan's genetic predisposition to mental illness, and though he would never admit it, Peter highly doubted that his late wife had ever not had her head on straight even once in her life -- he knew exactly which of them Dr. Haynes believed had hidden issues.)
But tonight, he was done. Peter had waited for the review. Maybe it was his last idea of a decent memorial for Stefan, or his own last little reason to keep going.
" --it's just abrupt and jarring... and unnecessary--"
Peter downed the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp, and left the glass sitting on the kitchen counter.
The phone was ringing now. He left it on the receiver.
"Peter, this is Rebekah Haynes... I'm sorry for getting back to you so late... I just wanted to call, and see how you're doing... you know the number. Just call me back when you're available."
Dr. Haynes would have her own note with her own answers. She wasn't his enemy here.
Peter found himself standing in front of his study door, just as he had so many times before. He had seen Stefan standing outside of his study enough times that there were times when he could simply hear a creak while working, and say, " Stefan, stop doing that ." and only hear the pitter-patter of a little boy's shoes as he hurried away.
His hands shook as he unlocked the door, opening it to a dark room. Peter approached the safe beneath his desk, and though the letters and numbers swam in his intoxicated vision, he entered the code and stared at the shelves inside; his wife's urn was small -- he had given half of her ashes to her parents -- and lying up against it was the old knitted rabbit that he had taken from Stefan too long ago.
Peter held the rabbit in his hands, running his thumb over the sewn eyes and its well-loved ears. In his opposite hand, he grabbed his old photo album, and closed the safe behind him as he left his study.
The photo album was dated. Old photographs from his wedding, which he'd thought was the happiest day of his life until Stefan's premature birth, were followed by photographs of a toddler poking his head over the bars of a crib. Their old family photos soon followed -- a picnic from when Stefan was four years old. Following this was old school photos, and an old photograph of Stefan from just before he had left Sixth Form.
"The past is immutable, Stefan, " On one of the many occasions that Peter had his ear pressed to Dr. Haynes' office door, he had heard those words. "No matter how painful it is, we can’t change things. We can’t choose differently with hindsight. We all have to learn to accept that. "
One could say that Peter had accepted that. Each night, in his drunken state, he mulled over every single argument and every single verbal lashing that he and Stefan had ever given each other, wondering which of them had driven his son to a point where he was willing to take LSD with his batshit coworker and which of them had driven him over the literal edge.
He hadn't accepted Stefan's death. But he had accepted what he was going to do next.
He made his choice.
Peter had cleaned the glass in the house, just as a nicety for whoever would find him later. He had made his bed and left Stefan's room alone with its door closed. He had cleaned and wiped down the lavatories, and thrown out each of the pills that were expired and emptied the refrigerator of most of its perishable food. His will was folded neatly in an envelope, stacked beneath all of the other addressed envelopes on the counter.
The floor was comfortable, but Peter's body was numb. Stefan's urn, the rabbit, and the photo album were his only company. The letters were ready, the house was ready, and the acetaminophen was ready.
He made his choice.
When Peter fell asleep, he laid on the kitchen floor, and kept his half-lidded eyes on the old family photograph, remembering how happy they had been. If he could make a moment last forever, then he would still have the only two people he had ever loved by his side. They would lie down in the dewy grass and watch the clouds passing, enjoying the warm breeze surrounding them and the sounds of birds chirping in the trees above them. There would be no pain, no grief, and no fighting.
The past was immutable, and so was Peter’s decision.