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You would think he'd get used to it by now. To the feeling of helplessness.
After all, it never quite went away despite his best attempts to pretend it defined him in no way. It was first there when he was running from hunters at age 6 and had to rely on his 18-year-old sister to protect him. It was also there when Peter boarded a plane meant to take him to a college on the opposite coast, all under his parents' instructions after they had discovered he fell in love with the son of a hunter. It was there when he sought comfort in the wrong woman, and when his sister took away every memory of his daughter, presumably to give the girl a chance at a normal life. And it was still there when his family's howls of agony were swallowed up by the crackles of fire, wishing he died with the rest of them.
The hospital afterwards was no different. It was just the sensation that was so overwhelmingly and maddeningly torturous, to be trapped inside his own body and know that he was utterly and irreversibly alone in the world. Eichen House was a piece of cake in comparison.
He wants to say he's moved past it. He thought about asking Scott to remove certain memories to make the process easier but he knows deep down that it wouldn't make a difference. It wouldn't make him any less broken or pathetic - something his father liked to tell him regularly, even after the man was no longer more than ash and dust.
So really, waking up completely paralyzed, not feeling a muscle in his body and having dread's claws buried in his heart shouldn't be anything new. The faceless hunter pulling an arrow on him from across the room shouldn't fill him with terror, and the stench of medication shouldn't have him screaming inside his mind to "MOVE!", God, just do something!
But he can't fight his body's reaction, and he can't help the tears when they start falling against his will. He hates being so vulnerable, hopes that the shadowy figure isn't laughing at him right now.
There is a distinct voice - muffled and unclear as if Peter was submerged in water - murmuring something beside him but he can't make out the words among the rush of blood that's pounding deafeningly in his ear, and it once again feels like his body is failing him. Just like when he failed to shield his family from the fire.
"It's alright, you're safe."
Peter doesn't feel safe in the slightest. He's a werewolf, he has to be able to control his body and fight the enemy at any given instance, and the fact that his senses seem to be completely useless at the moment fills him with a kind of horror that has a brief thought zip through his mind at once: maybe death will finally take him.
"I'm here," The voice says again, noticeably more discernable despite the constant beeping of the machines around Peter's immobile body. He can't turn his head but he suddenly feels the scratch of stubble under his fingers, accompanied by a breath of hot air as it hits his palm, and then there are dark blue eyes peering down at him and a gruff voice repeating the same things over and over again: You're alive. I'm here. You're safe. This will pass.
Peter's lungs open up in the next moment to take in a large gulp of smoke-free air, and he's breathing on his own and he's panting and his hands are grabbing at Chris's shoulders in a way that must be painful.
"That's it," Chris's calm voice registers despite how hard his grip might be, drowning out the screams and the clacking of heels against hospital tiles until there is nothing but silence and their steady inhale and exhale between the two of them. "You're in our bed. You're home. You're safe. We're both safe."
Peter swallows then and feels a wave of relief wash over him as his husband rests his forehead against his own, lulling Peter into a slow breathing pattern until the werewolf recognizes his surroundings and heaves a tired sigh.
"I hate this," Peter said, his bloodshot eyes blinking open to stare at his husband's gentle smile above him.
"I love you." It rolls so easily off of Chris's tongue, Peter doesn't even have to listen to his heartbeat. Not anymore.
"I love you, too."
Chris gives him a glass of water and they walk out onto the balcony to feel the night's chill prickle their skin. Once Peter feels sufficiently sleepy to return to bed, Chris leads him back to their room and cuddles up to him from behind, his arms enveloping Peter from hip to shoulder as if he could fend off nightmares just by holding Peter close. And he's right sometimes.
When Peter closes his eyes, he still sees the flames as they climb up the walls of the old Hale house, and he can still envision the familiar pattern of the hospital's wallpaper as he hopelessly stares ahead into the emptiness.
But a few seconds later, other images start playing on the endless reel of his mind - memories of pack, family and love - and Peter chooses to focus on the soft kiss his husband plants on the back of his neck before he goes under the tides of fortunately dreamless sleep.