#i feel so uprooted and sad and lonely and lost and bitter

[tonystarkstan]

The noise is the worst part.

The inescapable noise, everywhere he goes. The pounding in his eardrums, the echoes in his skull, the talking the talking the talking, and god he wishes everyone would shut up and he knows that’s not fair, because it’s not their fault it’s not their fault, they’re just scared, everyone is scared but god, if everyone could just shut the fuck up.

But Peter also knows that his maximum capacity for noise is not their responsibility. So he does he only thing he can think to do.

He holes up in the basement of an abandoned building, the closest thing he can get to solitude.

“Karen, Do Not Disturb,” Peter grits out, curling into a tight ball. “Black Out Protocol.”

He nearly sobs in relief when a solid shield falls over his eyes and everything goes blissfully quiet.

(But it is not entirely silent. It never fucking is.)

“Spider-Man, we need your help! We’re completely out of food and I’m too scared to go to the store.”

“Spider-Man, please! I can’t pay for medical assistance.”

“Spider-Man, you have to save my daughter!”

A whimper works its way up Peter’s throat, and he clasps his hands over his ears tightly, as if that’ll silence the noise in his head. As if that’ll fix this mess. As if he can save everyone. As if he can save anyone.

He can pull people from burning buildings, but he cannot pull viruses from cells.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, barely aware of tears soaking his mask as he tries to get a grip of himself. He squeezes his eyes shut for a desperate, selfish moment wishing he could be back at MIT, complaining about his next lab report that he procrastinated and stressing over his next exam.

He wishes he were back in his tiny apartment with his two roommates, watching movies at night and studying Grignard reactions during the day, eating brownies for dinner and eight eggs at 2AM just because he can.

Not being sent home, forced back into a suit that feels just a little too tight right now, because he didn’t even have time to pause and think about slipping back into it before the college sent out emails ordering the students off of campus, before racing home and immediately trying to fix the collateral damage of everyone’s panic.

He loves Spider-Man, but he’d give anything to go back to just being Peter Parker.

He’s not sure how long he stays there, curled up on the cool cement, eyes squeezed shut and hands gripping his head, when a hand touches his shoulder and he flinches back violently.

“Karen, disable Black Out Protocol!” Peter says frantically, and even the dim lighting of the room is enough to make him wince. He blinks blearily, even as his body coils with tension.

“Easy, kid, it’s just me,” Tony says in a low voice, hands raised.

Peter looks at him with wild eyes as the noise comes rushing back in, and he lets out a stuttered, “T-Tony?”

Tony keeps his movements slow, trying not to startle the kid any more than he already his.

“I’m here, Peter,” Tony reassures. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Something inside of Peter that had been sitting in his stomach like hot acid bubbles to the surface, and he can’t stop himself before snarling, “It’s NOT! It’s not fucking okay, Tony!” He ignores the look of alarm on the man’s face in favor of yelling more, because at least that’s louder than everything in his head. “Have you seen the world outside? Don’t—don’t tell me it’s okay when I have people screaming at me because they’re sick and need help and I can’t do shit. It’s not—fuck—I can’t—I keep thinking I want to go home but I am home, but I want the home I had before—before this mess. And I can’t—Spider-Man isn’t enough, it’s—”

Peter cuts off abruptly with a swear, swaying in place as he tries to catch his breath. He looks up at Tony with wide eyes, mortified at his outburst.

“Fuck—I’m sorry. I—”

“Peter, you need to breathe,” Tony tells him.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” Tony says firmly. “You know the drill. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.”

He waits, watches attentively as Peter tries to rein in his helplessness, and Tony can’t help the flash of pride he feels as Peter slowly takes a deep breath, holding it for few seconds before exhaling.

“Good, Peter. You’re doing great,” Tony encourages. “Do it again.”

They stay like that for a few silent moments, Tony crouched in front of Peter as he collects himself again, trying to tame the raw panic that’s been coursing through him for the past week.

Eventually, Tony sees some of the tension seep from his bones, and Peter sags back against the wall tiredly. Tony moves to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and Peter takes comfort in the solid presence next to him.

“What time is it?” Peter eventually asks into the silence.

“Nearing three in the morning,” Tony tells him, and Peter darts a surprised look at him.

It was around six in the evening when Peter took off. “Fuck.”

“You’ve gotten liberal with that word,” Tony observes, his lips quirking with amusement, and Peter gives him a sheepish look.

“It applies,” he answers simply, and Tony hums in agreement.

For a moment, they just sit in the comfort of each other’s presence, and Peter’s chest aches with how much he’s missed this. How much he’s missed Before. Before the virus, before college, before the Snap. Back when it was just him and Tony, working in the lab and tweaking his suit and bouncing theories back and forth like currency.

How did life get away from them so fast?

“I read this post once,” Peter says suddenly, and Tony doesn’t look at him, but he does press a little bit closer, everything inside of him stilling as he listens to his kid. “It was about tornadoes. It was talking about how if you see a tornado and it doesn’t look like it’s moving but it’s getting bigger, it’s because it’s moving towards you.”

“That’s.... horrifying,” Tony comments when Peter doesn’t immediately continue.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. Then, “This is what that feels like. It feels like you’re watching a tornado and you think you’re a safe distance away, but then you realize it’s getting bigger and bigger, and there’s the awful realization that’s it’s because it’s getting closer, and there is nothing you can do to outrun it. You just have to sit there and accept that it’s going to hit and it’s going to wreck your life and you’ll either survive it or you won’t.”

Tony looks at Peter, then, but the kid is staring at the ground, jaw clenched as if regretting his outburst. Tony nudges him gently and waits for him to look up. When he finally does, there’s a fear in his eyes that Tony hasn’t seen since Thanos. It makes him sick.

“That’s been building for quite awhile, huh, kid?” Tony says gently, and Peter shrugs.

“I... I like coming back to Queens but...”

“But not under life-threatening circumstances and in the midst of global tragedy,” Tony finishes for him. “I get it, bud. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed by all of this. Hell, even I had my meltdown with Pep already. Because god if I don’t feel like I’m doing enough. Every second not spent in the lab feels like I’m letting the world down. But that’s just... it’s not sustainable. You’re allowed to take a break, to get away. In fact, you need to, sometimes.”

Peter nods, swallowing thickly. “It’s just... it’s so loud,” he says, wincing at how whiny it sounds coming from his mouth. But he’s tired. The topic has flooded his entire life, both Peter Parker’s and Spider-Man’s and he just wants to escape it. It’s in his group chats and plastered all over the news and social media and in memes and it never stops. It never stops.

“I know, buddy,” Tony says sadly, and Peter can’t help but feel a flash of guilt, because he knows that out of all people, Tony really does get it. “But listen to me.” He waits until Peter is looking him straight in the eye. “The world has survived every disaster it’s faced so far. It has survived mass extinctions and it’s survived us. And we have survived mad Titan gods, we’ve lost half our population, and we’ve come back. We have survived plagues and natural disasters, and these things—yes, they’re inevitable. They’re devastating. But we will rebuild. We’re going to wake up one day, just like we always have, and we’ll find that we’ve survived again. That the tornado has torn through our lives and we’ve survived it against all odds, and we’ll be okay. And for those who aren’t—we’ll be there for them, too.”

There is silence as Peter lets his mentor’s words sink in, letting them curl inside his chest and plant a little bit of hope there. After a minute or so, he looks up at Tony and gives him a small smile.

“You steal that inspirational monologue from Pepper?” Peter teases, but Tony sees the gratitude in his eyes.

“Oi, none of that,” Tony protests, giving Peter a little shove. “I’ll have you know I’ve gotten much better at writing my own inspirational speeches. It’s the therapy.”

“Well, it’s... it’s definitely helped,” Peter admits, and he finally lets himself sink into Tony’s side, taking comfort in his warmth. Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

“Yeah?”

Peter closes his eyes are a moment, feeling hope grow inside of his chest.

“Yeah.”

(Hang on tight. Because even though the bad things feel inevitable, so are the good ones.)

[gutterclan]

Sanctuary Pack Stories: The Herbalist [Part Two]

[Eight and Dace continue on their journey to track down an expert herbalist to help cure the illness ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]

Eight watches Dace, as night falls around them.

They'd found a spot to sleep the night--  a great old cedar, one of the real giants, half-uprooted. It leans drunkenly against its neighbours, and beneath its mat of roots is a dry, warm hollow. A perfect place to spend the night.

It smells like Dace, already, a little, and the earth is packed down near the back of the hollow, where the roots still tie the tree down. How many places are there like this? Eight wonders. Where Dace has spent a lonely night?

Dace herself is still looking out into the wood, her eyes distant.

"What are you thinking?" Eight says, gently, and Dace startles. Turns.

“Nothing important. Just-- how much this clearing is different, in the winter. This ground, here--" she scratches at the snow, a harsh skrnch-skrnch of claws on the ice. "In the summer, It's all over with wildflowers-- flowers like you wouldn't believe, the smell is-- is dizzying. And there's a creek- right by that old log there- which the snow has all covered up. And..." She trails off, sounding almost wistful. "Well. Nevermind. I was just-- thinking how Rover brought me here, our first day out together. I doubt if she'd recognize it like this. She doesn't come this way often."

Eight blinks at her. "And you do?"

Dace shrugs. "Not here in particular. I guess I go all over. I had this idea about-- mapping the territory."

"Mapping it?"

Dace nods. "Only an idea. A pattern of scent marks and claw marks- in trees, and the like- by landmarks, so you'd always know where you were." Her voice grows louder, eager. "Like, 'This clearing has three marked trees, so I'm three hour's walk from camp.' That sort of thing"

Eight looks at her, surprised. There's real passion in Dace's voice; real conviction.

"And," Dace continues,  "with the scent marks, too, even in a heavy blizzard- even if you couldn't see at all- if you could smell, you could never be lost, nowhere on the whole territory!"

She stops, eyes glittering; lost in thought, again.

Eight remembers a long, terrible night, in the worst blizzard of their lifetimes, waiting for Rime to come home. Remembers Dace wretched over her loss, over not being able to stay and search for her. Remembers how close they had come to losing her, altogether.

"Dace," Eight says, slowly, "that's--"

Her voice seems to snap Dace out of her excitement; she settles, tail drooping back down. "Well," she says, with a sort of forced nonchalance, "Just an old idea-- no good thinking of it now. That fur's been shed."

They sit in silence, for a time. The wood is still and blue in the winter night. The full moon casts long, stark shadows through the trees.

"I don't think I've heard you talk like that," Eight says.

"No?" Dace gives her a sideways look, amused, and puffs out her chest, puts on a little-pup voice. "I'll be the best hunter you ever saw! The bears better watch out for me!! I'll take ‘em all down!"

Eight laughs. "Well-- alright. I haven't heard it since we were little." She shakes her head. Sobers. "You've changed a lot, since then."

"Have I?" Dace looks out into the night. "I guess we've all grown up, a little."

“I just mean-- you seem so serious, sometimes. I remember…” she trails away. Can’t articulate it.

“Do I?” Dace’s voice is thoughtful. “I wonder if--”

Eight looks out at the forest, when Dace trails away-- and is abruptly bowled over. Dace has sprung at her out of the blue, tail wagging, and pinned her easily.

“Still serious now?” She says, laughing, and Eight goes limp under her weight.

“You great buffalo, you’re crushing me!”

Dace starts to get up immediately. “Sorry, Eight, I was only--”

The second her weight is shifted, Eight plants her back legs into Dace’s belly, and shoves her over, leaping away again and landing in a play-bow, her own tail wagging. 

Speaking of serious. How long has it been since I played like this?

“Oh, I call that cheating!” Dace laughs and bounces after Eight again, her body loose and wiggly.

Eight skips easily out of the way, rearing up onto her back legs to shove at Dace’s shoulder.

Dace lets herself be rolled under Eight’s new attack, going easily over onto her back-- though this close, it’s clear how solid the muscle is under her shaggy winter coat. Eight feels something of a scrawny coyote, trying to wrestle with her.

She stands tall, anyway, forelegs braced on Dace’s chest. 

“Sad days when a healer will turn to violence,” Dace says,  her tail wagging tracks in the snow. “Have we truly fallen so low?”

“You’re the low one,” Eight says, lifting her chin, and when she looks back down, Dace is staring up at her, undisguised affection in her eyes. Eight’s chest tightens, almost painfully. She steps back immediately, letting Dace up.

After a moment, Dace rolls to her feet and shakes, scattering snow everywhere.

Eight snorts, caught in the spray. “Hey!”

“Ah, never let an enemy see you unguarded.” Dace’s voice is heavy with mock-wisdom. But the playfulness has gone out of the air; the moment is past.

Soon, they both pad their way back into the hollow of the cedar roots, and curl up against the snow.

Eight can feel Dace’s stiffness, now, hanging over them as they settle to sleep. She had noticed, surely, that Eight was-- uncomfortable, for a moment.

Uncomfortable? she asks herself, and blinks the thought away. Dace is uncomfortable, now. That’s the thing that matters.

“You know,” Eight says, voice low. “I’m-- I don’t know. I’m sorry. But I’m glad it’s you, I mean. That I’m going with. That we’re going-- together.”

A silence. 

“Dace?”

Her breathing is deep and even, loud in the ringing silence of the winter night. Eight sighs. Already asleep. She shifts, trying to get comfortable herself. 

And maybe it is her imagination-- but it seems that Dace shifts, too, for just a moment, and settles down more relaxed than she had been before, pressed tight against Eight’s side; a warm, strong comfort, in the bitter cold of winter.