Variant Strain

Peter woke up slowly. He was conscious, but he didn't want to open his eyes.

He wasn't quite ready to let go of the warm fuzz of sleep from his memory... he could pretend for just a moment that nothing had happened last night.

He'd gone to bed, slept soundly and now would wake to face the day.

Except that wasn't what had happened. The sharp, antiseptic smell of the rough sheets would not let him lie to himself.

He was not in his own bed. Even without opening his eyes, he knew the room felt... wrong. Too open. Too uncluttered. The window should have been providing a mild breeze, he knew he'd left it open. Instead, he wasn't even sure there were windows here.

The noises were different too. Mornings in his neighborhood meant bird-song and people driving to work. Here all he could make out were a low hum of florescent lights and a background sussuruss of soft voices.

This mattress had no lumps. The sheets were crisp linen. Rough against his skin. Not the well-laundered cotton that had been inadequate bedding even when it had been first bought.

So... not home.

That meant last night had happened.

He took a sharp breath in and remembered Uncle Ben... and the other thing. The one he really did not want to think about.

Realizing that there was no helping it, he opened his eyes slowly.

The room was small and anonymous, save for the medical equipment and a deactivated TV hanging from a bracket on the wall near the ceiling. There wasn't any question that it was a hospital room. He groaned as he sat up and noted absently that there was an IV in his arm. He glanced up and noted the saline bag on the stand was less than half-full and there was an empty one hanging on the hook next to it that someone probably should have disposed of. That meant he'd been here a while. He wondered just how long he'd been out.

Then he frowned at a realization. He blinked a few times. His vision was sharply focused. If he tried, he was sure he could probably have read the tiny lettering on the IV bag.

That was odd, he realized. His eyesight had never been keen. He'd always needed glasses, even as a little boy. Now everything just seemed to be... crisp.

His sense of hearing seemed clearer as well. He focused on the susuration and found he could distinctly hear his aunt's voice.

"... sure about this, Anna? You have enough to worry about with your niece and everythi--"

"Don't think twice about it, May." Anna Watson's dismissive voice floated back distinctly. "You would do the same for me. MJ's taking the spare bedroom. You can take the foldout in my room and Peter can stay in the den."

"I... well, it's only until the police release..." Her voice hitched briefly and Peter could tell she had stifled a sob. "Until the house isn't considered a crime scene anymore." She finished miserably.

"Oh, sweetie... you'll get through this. You're stronger than you think." He could hear rustling noises and guessed that their neighbor had just hugged his aunt.

"Ben was my strength." Aunt May replied quietly. "I just don't know how..."

"I know. I know. It'll get better." Anna spoke in a soothing tone.

"It's not just me, Anna," His aunt continued, "It's poor Peter. He loved Ben. After what happened with his parents... and this time he must've seen it happen."

"Do they know when he's going to wake up?" The concern in her voice was plain. The voices were also closer.

He could hear the knob rattling slightly.

The door opened and Peter, not quite knowing why he did so, slipped lower down into the bed and mostly closed his eyes again. He watched through his lashes as his aunt May, a handsome woman in her mid-forties slipped back into the room. Her normally placid face was lined with concern. May's hair had been a light brown, almost blonde once, but now was shot through with gray. Her clothes looked rumpled and well-worn. A jacket, blouse and slacks. She'd probably been wearing them since last night... Peter assumed it must've been the next day by now.

Behind her, Anna Watson, a woman in her mid-thirties with a shoulder-length fall of red hair whose color had probably come out of a bottle. She was unmarried, worked at a brokerage firm, owned her own house and had long been the subject of interest for many of the neighborhood boys, owing to her pretty face, stunning figure and an indifferent attitude towards closing the curtains when she did her workouts at home. At Uncle Ben's encouragement, Peter had a few photos of her... tasteful shots, of course. But any interest Peter had in spandex had probably been inspired by Anna.

Neither of them looked like they'd had much, if any, sleep.

May spoke as she crossed the distance from the door to his bedside. "The doctor doesn't think there's anything wrong with him physically." She reached out and smoothed his unruly hair back gently, then shook her head. "But he must have seen what happened to Ben. The shock of that..." Her voice trailed off helplessly.

Anna was at the foot of the bed and not within Peter's immediate line of sight, but he could almost sense her there still. Like a scent or a pressure. Something made him aware of her position even before she replied. "It's a horrible thing to see. At any age."

May sighed heavily, her hand stroking Peter's head once more. It was soothing. He needed soothing... but Aunt May was hurting. It didn't take sharper senses to know that. Why had he decided to play possum? Instinct, he decided. He'd reacted on instinct and hidden himself... but he was safe now, right? Aunt May and Anna... they would be safe enough, right?

Peter took a deep breath, strange scents lingering past his senses. He could actually differentiate them, he realized as their scents cut through the sharp antiseptic tang in the air. His Aunt smelled of flour and olive oil. Old books and spices. She smelled like home. Anna smelled of paper and lilacs. Clean laundry and car interiors on a hot day.

He opened his eyes and looked into his Aunt's concerned gaze.

"Oh, Peter." May said gently, a relieved smile spreading across her expression.

Peter sat up easily and wordlessly hugged her.

"Oh, Peter... your Uncle Ben..."

His voice nearly broke at the pain in hers. "I know. I... I saw what happened."

Her grip tightened. A distant part of himself that wasn't taking comfort from his Aunt's embrace noted Anna still at the foot of the bed, smiling sadly. She stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do with herself.

Anna spoke quietly. "I'll should go, May. You two take your time. MJ and I will catch a cab home and you just come back to my place when the doctors say Peter can go, alright?"

May nodded wordlessly into Peter's shoulder. He offered Anna a small, appreciative smile as she left. That small, distant part of him not wrapped up in his grief or misery piped in again, whispering in the back of Peter's head about how... interesting Anna Watson looked walking away.

He clamped down on that voice furiously.

His uncle was dead.

His aunt was hurting.

The last thing he needed to be doing was ogling their next door neighbor.

There was something like a lascivious laugh and a voice in his head, speaking in a clear Southern drawl retorted, It's just death, boy. Death happens.

Peter involuntarily hugged his aunt tighter, causing the woman to make a small noise in protest.

Peter knew something had happened to him. Something strange.

He knew he was stronger.

Ridiculously... immensely... vastly stronger than his skinny frame should be.

He released her immediately, as though burned and bit his lower lip. "Sorry."

Aunt May shook her head and smoothed his hair back gently. She smiled and kissed his brow. He could almost read the difference. She was swallowing her grief. Her worries. She was walling them back so that she could be strong for him. That formed a lump in his throat and might have set off more tears, but that tiny voice drawled softly to him that he needed to be strong.

Stronger than tears.

He held her gaze firmly and asked, "Did they catch the men who did it? The guy who shot Uncle Ben? I... I'm pretty sure I managed to punch him before he ran off."

May shook her head. "No word yet. One of the police detectives wanted to talk to you when you woke up. He was here earlier." She held his hand and continued to look worriedly at him. "You punched him?"

He nodded. "They... he... he shot Uncle Ben... then the other guy was trying to take his body with them and I just..." He shrugged helplessly, "I reacted. I chased the guy down to make him let go, but the guy who shot him got in the way and I punched him. Or something. It..." He remembered what else had happened. He could taste bile again at the thought of what had happened. He couldn't let her know.

That was what a monster did, right? He probably wasn't human anymore... was he? Would she still accept him if he weren't... no. She didn't need to know that. She was hurting deeply enough. He couldn't let her think that she'd lost him as well. Especially not to men in lab coats with knives and microscopes. Cages and Gentek.

Why had he thought of Gentek again? Why would they be vivisecting him and not anyone else, like the government?

May reacted to his sudden hesitation by enfolding him in another hug, "It must have been terrible for you. It will be alright, Peter. I promise you. Everything's going to be alright." She sniffled and Peter knew she was fighting tears back once more.

He nodded miserably into her shoulder. She was trying to be strong for him. He could do the same for her.

And don't let her catch you, the southern accented voice drawled in the back of his head. They never understand when they catch you. They catch you it's the chair for sure.

More to distract himself than to really get an answer, he pulled away from the hug and asked, "How long have I...?" Peter let the question trail off.

May said, "It's nine AM right now. So about eight hours or so?" She allowed a small smile to quirk her lips, "This is the latest you've slept in all summer."

Peter smiled back weakly. "Do I have to stay here much longer?"

"I don't think so. We'll get you checked out. Anna offered to put us up until the police let us back into the house." She paused thoughtfully. "We'll need a few changes of clothes. What you were wearing was..." She paused again, this time her expression was tinged green. "Your clothes were ruined. And we can't get to anything clean."

Peter nodded, eager to be free of the tiny, antiseptic bed. There was just something... vaguely unpleasant about being in it.

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