Work Text:
Roach said Lucius would be okay when he woke up. Frenchie agreed, something about blood…demons?
So that was alright.
But Pete still felt oddly shaken, a queasy ache twisting in his stomach at the thought of Lucius almost—
He needed to do something.
Pete's knife glides across the block of wood, a tiny sliver curling off to join the growing pile on the floor. He's whittling away rough edges, shaping something soft and delicate but still strong. One last careful check for splinters and it's finished.
A wooden finger.
He hopes it doesn't look too much like a thumb.