Work Text:
June 8th, 2014
So sometimes bad things happen.
That's really the crux of a lot of life, Peter’s found.
Sometimes bad things just happen, and no matter the way you micromanage or detail out the procedure or theory, they happen, and there's nothing that could have stopped it, nothing in your control, at least.
Sometimes bad things just happen, and there’s not anything you could have done.
Peter doesn't drive much anymore. Not in the last year. Not since his accident. A year ago he was in bed for over a month. 10 months ago he was finally walking again. 8 months ago now he was allowed to drive again, technically.
But he hasn’t, really.
Having one eye and a mask he can hardly make himself take off is only sprinkles on top of the neuroticities he had before his accident. His accident has only added more.
There is a lot to driving that is stressful. He has the money to pay a driver when he does go places, so that's what he does, if he needs to be somewhere. Has done.
But before last year his only excuse was paranoia about car crashes. Now he had his accident, but–
But…
But sometimes he just wants to be somewhere else. Other. Far. Not home.
He didn't want to be home.
He loves Walter Manor.
It's not quite simple to have a moment alone in Walter Manor.
It’s not easy to not feel watched.
On paper he’s left to go and buy replacement power tools from a box store because they need more drills, he put, drill bits, hand drills, just– he broke one, the other day, and–
And it was the only thing he could think of to get out of the house without someone asking what he was doing. So that's the reason he wrote on the check out sheet for the company van he used to drive more often
And it's maybe not the actual reason. But it's a reason. And..
He's in a weird mood.
He feels like bees are crawling around in what's left of his lungs, vibrating their bodies and wings, and making him shudder from the inside out.
He feels like his blood is half motor oil, sliding around in his veins too quickly, pooling in his fingers and toes.
He feels bad.
He feels bad in an in-the-head way, and not in a his-body-hurts way. He feels bad like his brain has been spun into strings of taffy way.
Sometimes he worries he’s more like Aunt Wanda than he’s let himself think he is.
His hands are sweating around the steering wheel. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, really, other than away. He just wants to be somewhere. Somewhere.
Just somewhere.
He's pulled over in a Walmart parking lot, in the far back row of spaces. Beside the car a dying tree's flimsy shade filters through the glass. He’s cracked the windows to try and let in air.
He sort of feels dizzy.
He sort of feels like he’s falling.
He rests his forehead on the wheel, hands buried in his hair, and–
And there is something very wrong with him, maybe.
He's thinking too much.
There comes a certain point where he crosses the threshold of thinking more than typical people, to thinking far too much, to–
To this.
He’s thinking too much.
And it's really not so complicated when you think about it all.
It’s really not so odd to think he might have some kind of problem with all this.
It’s really not so hard to wrap your head around that there might be something really really wrong with him.
All this. Everything. The everything.
Aunt Wanda had a nervous break when she was 21. That was 67 years ago. He’s 28. He should have dodged that one by now. That one shouldn’t apply to him. Wanda’s alive. That one can’t apply.
But It’s really not so odd to think he might have a problem of some kind. It's expected.
That's what he tells himself, anyway. It's easy to digest. Whatever this is is part of it. He’s allowed and expected to have a problem with it all.
It’s normal, and he can pack it up, rationalize back the shakiness until its nothing, until it's nothing again.
Put the thoughts in a cabinet and turn the key in the lock.
He is in the back corner of a Walmart Parking lot, in a company van, and he feels like he's losing it.
He’s more like Aunt Wanda than he probably should be.
And perhaps the fact is this: He is going to die.
Or perhaps the real fact is this: He didn’t die, and now he’s scared of it getting worse.
Logic says if it hasn’t killed him by now it won't. If he were going to die, it would have happened by now.
And pattern says If something were going to happen to him, it would happen quickly in a world ending flash, and he probably wouldn’t even know it happened until he was gone.
At least that's how two of them went. It was only fast for two of them.
Everyone after… Everyone after 1955 was different. Uncle Petey was cooked from the inside out and tossed out into infinity and back. His great uncle held his twin brother as he disintegrated.
Only Auntie Wanda’s first husband and his great grandfather died any kind of quickly.
They didn’t find grandpa Mark for two days.
But If something was going to happen, it would have happened by now
He digs his nails into his hair.
He needs to stop.
He needs to stop thinking.
He needs to stop thinking.
What's it like to crash a car? His grandfather did, and no one found him until long after his waterlogged body had bloated, until long after water had crashed in through the shattered windows. Grandpa’s head was cracked open against the steering wheel, and hell, Pete probably looks just like him now, with his face stretched and warped and– and his legs were mangled, by the crumpled metal, but still, still, he wouldn't have died right away. Even if he did fall unconscious. What's it like to crash your car? He could find out. He could pull out of this parking lot and–
He needs to stop thinking.
And what is it like to peel off your skin? He thinks about it whenever he sees his face now. It's not him. He can't see it as him. Scarred, ribbed, stretched, skin. Pale gray, burnt and twisted. He wishes he could just pry his nails under the flesh and slowly pull it off, up, feel it release like a scab from old flesh. Split blue twisted keloid scar and find pink skin - healthy - beneath.
He needs to stop thinking.
And anyway, what's it like to die? To feel your consciousness wane? He thinks he was as close as someone can be before drifting. He remembers falling endlessly in his coma. He remembers blue. He remembers dark. He remembers his breath twisting from his lungs. He remembers dying, he remembers hurting.
It must hurt, to feel your body shut down. To end. To be gone. It must hurt. He doesn’t want it to hurt. When it happens he hopes it's fast. But the pattern hasn’t been fast in a long time. How would it happen, does he think, at this point, there hasn’t been a random murder, yet, there hasn’t been someone being taken and killed, random violence, sudden violence, and that wouldn’t be fast, would it, that–
He needs to stop thinking.
He buries his head into his hands. He can’t do this. He has to buy drills or something. Has to drive after this. Has to–
He can't breathe.
He’s losing it, isn’t he? He’s going to suffocate in his mask in the company van outside Walmart.
He feels like he’s breathing through a straw, and there's tears all down his mask, now, and the two way mirror he looks through is fogged up, and he can't do this—
He’s coughing, gagging around his own spit, now, throat spasming around itself, and he can't clear his throat, can't stop coughing, and the inside of his mask is awful, and he’s in a Walmart parking lot, and someone could see him if he takes it off, there's snot in his throat, and—
And he’s going to die here.
He’s about to die.
He—
He should have stayed home. He should have stayed home. He should have stayed home.
At home even if everyone is looking at him like he’s about to snap at least he’s home. At least he can bury himself beneath a blanket and hide, at home he—
He pulls at his hair, managed a gasping inhale, and he doesn't know what to do, he—
He needs to stop thinking.
He needs to stop thinking so much.
He needs to go home.
He wants to go home.
But the idea of starting the engine makes him gag, and he can't- he can't do that.
He can't do that.
He can't do that.
Blood on the steering wheel, airbag crushing his ribs, snapping bone after bone, shattered windshield raining glass down on him, breaking his legs as the engine bears down into him, snapping his neck, or worse, or worse. Being trapped, trapped as the car burns, fire eating him. None of the deaths have any link, nothing he can predict with. None of the ways Walters die have any link, Great Grandfather Peter and Guy were vaporized, Grandpa Mark died in a car crash, Great Great Uncle Pete had heart attack in his office, was poisoned maybe, Aunt Wanda is convinced he was poisoned even if Dad thinks that's stupid, and Uncle Petey was— he—
There was no predicting any of it. There was no stopping any of it. And he was supposed to die on May 29th, 2013.
He was supposed to have died on May 29th, 2013, and it is June 8th, 2014, and he was supposed to have died a year ago, he was supposed to have died a year ago and he didn’t, he didn’t, and—
He needs to go home.
He can’t drive home.
His keys are thrown in the passenger seat.
He can’t drive home.
Grandpa Mark’s body wasn’t found for two days.
When he was learning to drive Aunt Wanda kept looking at him like he was already dead.
Aunt Wanda planned his dads funeral the day after he was deployed in Vietnam. Dad never forgave her for it.
Aunt Wanda has had a grave picked out for him since before he was born.
He’s a lot more like her than he’d ever like to admit.
There’s not enough air in his lungs.
He can't even cry right anymore.
He can’t drive home.
He needs to go home.
He needs someone to come get him.
It's the first real thought he’s had in minutes, maybe. Clear against the droning din of his heartbeat. Against the swimming tears.
He needs someone to come get him.
He wants his dad.
He’s 27 years old.
Grandpa Mark died when he was 27.
He can’t even drive himself home.
His phone screen protector is cracked, as he pulls his phone from his jeans. The glass snags against his finger as he opens the call function, dismisses QWERTY’s popup, fumbles for his dads contact — his office, he usually keeps his personal muted when he’s at his desk and— and his eyes are blurring, he misses flip phones, tactical buttons, he could type in numbers, not fumble through similarly named contacts and—
And it rings.
He doesn’t know how well he’s going to be able to talk.
“You’ve reached Walter Robotics, Peter Walter Sr. speaking,” says his dads voice through the speaker and—
And tears spring to his eyes again, wet and miserable, and his mask is so damp, and—
“Please state your name and reason for—”
“Dad?” he says, and his voice is shaking far too badly, he sounds strangled, and awful and—
“Pete?” And he must sound bad, bad bad bad, because his dad’s tone is sharp, nearly, startled,
“I can't drive.” He says, and that's not anything, that's nothing, that's no reason to call him, he’s busy at work and—
“Where are you,” He can hear his dad standing up, through the line, and he just—
He can't do this.
He doesn’t remember how to do this.
“I’m in a Walmart parking lot.” He says, and it's pathetic, he’s pathetic, he should be better than this, he shouldn't be stuck here and—
“The one near the highway on ramp?” His dad asks, and he sobs into the speaker, and he can't do this, he can’t do any of this, he should just drive home, he can do it, he can—
“I have the van. I can’t drive. I should just—”
“No. No. You’re not driving like this. I’ll be there. By the freeway?”
“I’m sorry-” he chokes.
“Pete. Pete. No. I will be there. By the freeway?”
“Yeah.” He curled over his arms now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He can’t stop saying it.
“Pete. Son. No. You’re okay. I’ll be there.”
He doesn’t feel very okay.
“I can drive.” He can’t. He should. He needs to.
“If you don't take the keys out of the ignition I will make sure you never drive a car again so long as I’m alive, son.”
“They’re on the seat.” He says.
“Leave them there.” Dad’s voice is muffled, he’s walking, Peter can hear it now, now and he—
He’s pathetic.
“I’m sorry.”
“I love you.” says his Dad, and he never says that, and Peter chokes again, clawing at his hair, and—
“I don’t want to drive.” he’s like a broken disc, skipping the same lines and—
“I will be there as soon as I can.” and he’s making his Dad find a ride, and he’s making his Dad come get him and—
“You’re okay, Pete.”
He isn’t, though.
He doesn’t remember when he was okay.
He wants to peel off his face. Hook his nails under the skin and pull up. He wants to be normal again.
He will never be normal again.
…
Dad keeps talking. And he feels like he’s drowning.
He feels like all his blood has settled in his feet and stayed there. He’s slumped over his steering wheel. His hands are buried in his hair.
And then a car is pulling into the lot beside him, and—
And his dad gets out of the back seat, and knocks on the van’s window and—
And Peter unlocks the door.
His dad opens it, and Peter looks up at him, to him. His dad’s eyes are all wide, his glasses all smudges, and Peter feels sick, sick, shaking.
“Pete,” says his dad, and he—
He crumples forward against him through the door, and his dads arms wrap around him, tight, holding, and he—
“I’m sorry.”
His dad holds him, steady, stable, and it’s–
Is this better?
This is better.
“Let's get you into the passenger seat.” His dad smooths back his hair, “C’mon, Pete,”
And Peter doesn’t quite know if he can stand. He does anyway. His dad walks him around to the other door. The arm around him the only thing holding him upright.
He sits down again. He’s lightheaded. A little dizzy. He leans forward against the dash. His dad’s hand lingers on his shoulder a moment before he returns to the driver's side.
And then they’re both in the seats. And Peter’s shuddering - he can't stop the way he’s crying. Or how his breath keeps catching in his lungs, air sticking in his throat, and he hates this, he hates this.
But his dad reaches over, takes his shoulder, pulls him into a hug across the transmission, and Peter collapses against him.
“You’re okay.” says his dad, firm, “You’re okay, Pete.”
He doesn't know. His entire face is soaked in tears and snot. He—
He feels bad.
He—
He curls into his dads arms.
“My mask is full of tears.” he says, miserable. “I don't— do you— are there tissues?”
His dad reaches past him, into the glove box and he—
“Please don’t look at me,” He needs to get the snot off his mouth and chin, he needs to—
His hands can't grasp the buckle in his hair.
His dad’s hand follows his, and he just presses his face further into his dads arms as his dad helps him undo the clasp. Undoes the buckle, and he–
He’s never felt smaller.
He’s never ever felt smaller.
Slowly he pulls his mask down, trying to hide under his arms as he does, but the wood slips from his shaking fingers to the floor, and he tears back, and,
And his dad is looking at him.
He flinches, curls up, smears snot all down his sleeve as he hides.
“Pete,” says his dad, soft, “Son,”
And he finds himself looking up, and—
And his dad just looks worried.
There’s no revulsion there. No fear. No recoiling at how bad it is. No—
None of it.
“I’m sorry.” He says again, he doesn't know what else to say, how else to say it, so he wipes off his face, snot soaking napkins, tears smearing across his skin.
His dad takes the napkins. Peter looks up and—
And it’s out of practice. It’s been a long time since he was young enough his dad had to follow him around with a tissue. But his dad wipes off his tears, from his cheeks, and he—
Peter lets him.
His dad hasn’t seen his face all that much since he got his mask. Since he started being able to hide it.
His dad isn’t even phased by it. Him. The horror he is now. The scars.
Peter used to look so much like him.
“What happened?” Asks his dad, setting aside the napkins, taking his shoulder again.
And he doesn’t know.
He shrugs.
“Pete?”
“I don’t think I’m okay.” he hunches over, hugs his mask to his chest. “Dad I don't- I-”
He feels like he’s going to break all over again.
“...I don’t think you’re okay either, Pete.”
“I want to go home.” he hides in his arms, presses his face into his sleeves,
“It gets better,” His dad squeezes his shoulder, “All this, it gets better.”
He wants to say how do you know? How do you know?
But instead he shrugs and—
And his dad squeezes his shoulder again.
And his mask is still filled with snot. And it's in his lap. And he feels sick.
“Dad?” he asks, wispy, shaky.
“Pete?”
“Can you hug me please?” he asks, far too desperate and—
And he does. His dad leans over the center console and drags him closer, holds him. Squeezes him tight enough that for a moment he doesn’t even think about death and pain and dying and car crashes.
“Lets get you home.” says his dad, but doesn’t pull back.
Peter doesn’t either. Not right away.
He just needs a minute.
He just needs a minute.
…
Of course eventually he pulls back.
Breaths slotting evenly into his lungs again.
His dad’s eyes are still wide, and he’s still looking at him like he might break but—
But he feels a little bit less like he’s going to.
“Alright?” His dad asks, and he nods, small, “Good. That’s good, Pete,”
He wipes the mess out of his mask. Pulls his mask back up to his face, manages to clasp the latch behind his head.
He curls over his arms.
“...what happened?” asks his dad, again, for the second time, as he turns the keys in the ignition, shifts into first gear,
And Peter doesn’t even know.
He….
He might know.
“I should have died last year.” he says, choking, and that’s it, isn’t it? He’s a year past his death, and he doesn’t know how to survive it. “I don't know why I didn’t”
He shouldn’t have survived. There’s no reason he should have survived. By all rights the explosion should have killed him.
And his father winces.
“Pete…”
“There’s no way to explain how I lived, Dad. You know that. There’s no way to explain why I shouldn’t have died, and Wanda—”
“Is Wanda putting ideas in your head, Pete?” His dad asks, sharper than usual and—
And she isn’t.
“No! No,” he defends, shuddering as his dad shifts into third, pulls onto the road, “I— I just— I don’t know how I’m alive at all.”
“...Blue matter in our DNA, is my guess,” His dad adjusts the rear view mirror, and he feels awful.
And even if blue matter were the cause, it– it still doesn’t make sense.
He should have died a year ago.
“There’s no evidence of that.” He mumbles,
His dad sighs. “Pete, If you want to talk about luck over Science, then you used whatever luck we were lacking for the past 100 years up on that.”
And that's—
That’s something, maybe, maybe— Maybe that's something. He used all the luck they all didn’t have.
But his dad must see it in his tense pose, that he’s processing that, because he looks over, sharp.
“Pete. For the love of god. Don’t focus in on that one. Luck isn’t real.” His dad sighs, and he—
Peter nods. “I know.”
It feels real. There’s no good explanation for any of this other than bad luck. But he’s right. He’s right. Luck isn’t real and–
“You’re alive, Son.”
“I know, Dad.”
And his mask is still damp, but not as bad, and his lungs still feel tight, but not as full of buzzing, and he—
He just wants to go home. He wants to lay down.
“Thank you.” He says, quiet into his hands. “Dad.”
And Peter Walter the Fifth looks over at him, from the road, and says,
“Pete, I love you. You can always call me.”
And he’s going to start crying again.
And he nods into his hands instead.
And his dad reaches over, off the gearshift, and tousles his hair.
..Maybe he’s feeling a bit better.
Maybe.
Maybe a little.
He pulls the lever beside his chair, tilts it back to lay down.
Tries to ignore the quiet roar of the engine,
“I’m sorry.” he says again.
“Don’t be, Pete.” his dad says, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut and turns into the seat.
He is going to sleep a long time tonight.
His dad keeps driving.
Maybe he will be okay.
He doesn’t know.
…
Sometimes bad things happen.
That’s the crux of a lot of things in life.
Sometimes bad things happen and there's not a single thing he can do to prevent it.
…And other times he drives to Walmart upsets himself in his car, apparently.
But bad things happen. They just do.
They just do.
He’s probably not going to drive again anytime soon.
Same As Cash - The Mountain Goats
You were still attached to your Civic sedan
Although the brakes always needed repair
You were headed out to buy some supplies
You could smell the threat of rain in the air
I can only see the scene second-hand
I can only try to understand
How a small amount of pressure in the right place
Breaks the strongest link in the chain
In your car with your head in your hands
At the far end of the Walmart parking lot
Trying not to buckle under the strain
Every single night after prime time
Loud enough to hear in your sleep
The salesman from the lot half a mile from here
Yelling down the hood of his Jeep
I'll take anything that the others won't
I can see the value where others don't
Just a small amount of pressure in the right place
Two fingers to the temporal vein
In your car with your head in your hands
At the far end of the Walmart parking lot
Trying not to buckle under the strain
Striking a bargain with the imp in your brain
Prepared to take another knock for the short gain
But you can ask any veteran running back
Eventually your joints complain
You were headed home at eighty miles an hour
With your fingers sweating under your gloves
Everyone deserves a little light in their hair
Everybody needs to love and be loved
That's what all the people say, anyway
I can save my thoughts for another day
Maybe a small amount of pressure in the right place
Anything to help with the pain
In your car with your head in your hands
At the far end of the Walmart parking lot
Trying not to buckle under the strain