Chapter 7
Peter woke up early on Sunday and was frustrated by the fact that he had. Sunday’s had always been his sleep-in days. But there he was. Wide awake at 5 am on a Sunday. He had tried falling back to sleep. He had tossed and turned, flipped all around his bed, but he just wouldn’t fall back to sleep.
That’s how he wound up running at 5:30 in the morning around his neighborhood.
Peter liked running. Back at their old apartment, he’d run as far as he could. He loved the feeling of his feet pounding against cracked concrete. Loved the fast thump, thump, thump of his heart as he pushed himself harder and faster. He loved the ache that settled deep in his muscles after the run, when he’d stretch out and couldn’t hold in his groans or hisses of discomfort.
It was soothing for him. When he ran, he didn’t think of anything else except for what his body was telling him. It had been so long since he’d last ran. After Uncle Ben’s death, he’d been too afraid to leave the house. He stayed in his room and avoided the living room. Avoided the stain that had seeped into the carpet, choosing to stay forever. Aunt May had tried everything to get it out. To just make it go away, just go away. So, Peter had stopped running. He stopped everything except crying and blaming himself.
Dr. Rodgers had encouraged him to start the running back up again. Hell, the good doctor had encouraged that Peter started up anything again. Just to get him out of his room and functioning like a normal human again. During that talk, Peter had wanted to lash out. He had wanted to yell that his doctor knew nothing of trauma or loss. Not like Peter had, was, facing.
Then he saw the picture that sat, innocent, on Dr. Rodgers’ desk.
It was a simple photo, in a simple black frame, but Peter knew that the man standing on his doctor’s right side was not simple. The man’s eyes were so sad even though he had a huge grin on his face. When Dr. Rogers caught him looking at it, he whipped off his glasses and had shot Peter a gentle smile. His eyes were sad, heavy with a hurt not healed from time.
“His name is James,” Dr. Rodgers had told him, voice calm, yet shaky. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.” Laughing, he had added, “I always called him Bucky. His middle name’s Buchanan. Oh, god how he hated his middle name,” He shook his head ruefully, mouth curled in a small sad smile. “But he didn’t hate ‘Bucky’. So, that’s what I called him.”
“What happened to him, Dr. Rodgers? If I can ask, of course?” Peter had asked, begged with his brown eyes wide. Hungry for a story, for something new to be told to him.
“He was hurt,” Dr. Rodgers had cleared the thickness from his throat. “He got hurt one night when we were out doing what young men tend to do. We had had a few drinks at the local bar and were walking home since we were too drunk to drive and too poor to call a taxi,” gathering a shaky breath, he continued as if he had told the story again and again.
“We had been crossing the street. Rough housing with each other. I didn’t see the car coming but- but Bucky did,” he let out a wet sounding cough and Peter had pretended not to see the tears glistening in Dr. Rodger’s eyes. “He pushed me out of the way.”
Dr. Rodger’s told him about the injuries Bucky had suffered keeping him safe. Brain damage, comatose. Asleep for damn near five years until one morning, his eyes finally opened. Dr. Rodger’s told Peter about how happy he was when he got the call that his best friend was finally awake. He’d been going down to the hospital everyday to sit and talk with Bucky. Everyday for five years, he had sat by his hospital bed and had held his hand, begging, pleading that he would just wake up.
But when he woke up, it was a bigger nightmare than when he was in the coma.
“He didn’t remember me,” he had said, voice croaky, “he didn’t remember anything. Not even his own name. He looked at me when I walked in and I was so relieved because his eyes were open. He smiled, confused and he asked, ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’ That was the worst day of my life.” He had shot Peter a melancholy smile. “He still doesn’t remember me when I go and visit him daily at the housing unit where he lives. He always welcomes me with a smile, but I always have to tell him who I am. He remembers his name now,” he had said, a proud smile on his face. “Knows when he was born, what happened to him. He just can’t remember me.” He couldn’t hide the hurt, the long lived hurt, from his voice.
“I blamed myself for what happened to him for a long time. Just like how you blame yourself for what happened to your uncle.”
Angrily, Peter had shouted, had screeched, “You didn’t get Bucky killed!”
And the words that his doctor spoke haunted him still. Would probably always haunt him.
“I killed the Bucky that I knew. I tried for a long time to get that Bucky back before I finally came to terms with the fact that that Bucky, my Bucky, was gone. It took me a long, long time to stop blaming myself and in truth, a part of me still does. A part of me always will.”
“Then what’s the point of trying to heal if I will always feel like I’m the reason he’s dead?” Peter had whispered, broken, tears and snot dripping down his face.
“You heal so you can live,” his doctor had told him, voice gentle and eyes understanding as he handed him a tissue. “You heal because it’s what your uncle would’ve wanted.”
And so, Peter had started healing.
It was a slow process. An aggravating one but he had slowly started to function again. He had started going outside again. Had started walking farther and farther from his home. He didn’t jump at loud noises. The stain on the carpet hadn’t affected him in a long time. He had been doing good.
Healing, though, was a process that had a lot of setbacks. The guilt swept him away once. Had pulled him under its heavy waves and dragged him to the very bottom of self-hatred. He didn’t take for a month. Hadn’t uttered a word to Aunt May. When he went to visit the doctor, Dr, Rodger’s had nearly cried. May breaking down was what had pulled him back, gasping and spluttering, to the surface.
“I already lost my husband! You don’t get to leave me, too, Peter.” She had hugged him almost painfully tight against her thin frame. Peter had sobbed against her. His hands grabbing, bruising, at her shoulders.
“We’ll get better, honey,” she soothed as she had held him. “We’ll get better.”
In the new house, the new neighborhood, just the newness in general, Peter did feel better.
Breathing hard, Peter came to a stop. Catching his breath, he settled against a light pole and checked his watch. Two hours, he’d been running for two hours. Inhaling, he reveled in the burn that settled in his lungs. It had been so long since he felt the familiar sensation. Resting his back against the light, he closed his eyes and just breathed.
“Baby boy?” Peter’s eyes shot open and he looked around. Wade was running to him, a shocked look on his face. “Baby boy, what the hell are you doing out at seven in the morning?” He looked concerned, hazel eyes cataloging Peter’s sweat soaked clothes.
“Um,” he coughed awkwardly, “running?” He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at how sweaty it was. “I, uh. I didn’t know you lived on Mills.”
“Mills?” Wade asked, shaking his head. “Peter, baby boy, Mills is like, two hours away from here.” At Peter’s shocked look, he ran a hand down his face. “Christ. You ran all the way here from Mills? How the fuck, what the fuck, Petey?” He questioned; hands settled on his hips.
Flushing at how his muscles stretched out his long-sleeved tee, Peter scratched at his arm, noticing the goosebumps. “Um, I just really got into it, I guess? Wasn’t really paying attention,” he shrugged self-consciously.
“Well, I’ll drive you home. Your parents are probably freaked the fuck out,” Wade muttered, grabbing Peter’s arm and leading him towards a cozy looking house.
“Don’t have any,” Peter said, not thinking.
“Excuse me?” Wade asked, eyes wide in shock as he stared.
“My, uh. My parents are dead,” he answered, cursing not having a filter.
“Oh, fuck,” Wade breathed, pulling Peter into his arms. “I’m so sorry, baby boy,” he murmured into his hair, squeezing.
Humming, Peter leaned into Wade’s warmth. “No,” he murmured, “it’s fine. They died when I was really little. Barely remember them. My aunt and Unc…” He choked. “I live with my aunt and she’s probably asleep. She worked late last night.”
With one last squeeze, Wade pulled back. “I’m still sorry, Pete,” he said, cupping his cheek for a moment and making Peter’s breath hitch before it was gone. “Let’s get you home.”
Throat dry, Peter nodded. “Yeah, Wade. Okay.”