Chapter Text
The Castle residence smells the same as it had before Peter left with his family for the carousel. The lingering smell of the candles his mother liked to buy and that Frankie hated the smell of still filled the house. There were toys still scattered over the ground near the entryway, likely from Frankie neglecting to listen to their mother about picking them up the other day.
Pictures of his family decorate the walls, pictures of their shared happy moments or random outings where Peter brought along his camera. He always tried to capture moments where his family looked truly happy. Looking at those pictures now, it just stings his eyes because that's how he wants to remember his family. He and his family were never perfect, but any of the many fights he had with his siblings don't feel important anymore. The arguments he'd get into with Lisa about chores or how his mother made them resolve them. But now, looking at a certain picture with Lisa looking at Frankie with a small smile while Frankie beams at something out of view.
Peter feels empty, the house's quietness only amplifying his grief. His now constant reminder of what exactly he’s lost. It fills his limbs with static and his ears ring.
Numbly moving his feet away from the entryway, Peter goes further inside the house. He makes his way to the kitchen, pointedly not looking at the photos of his father in his formal uniform on the mantle in the living room. He wonders if his dad would be disappointed in him that he couldn't save Frankie. He had been the closest to him when it happened. He didn't push him out of the way of the multiple bullets that hit his small frame. He didn't stop the blood that kept rushing out of him.
When Peter reaches the kitchen, it's cast in darkness just like the rest of the house, with various nightlights plugged in to dimly illuminate the space. He flicks on the light passing the island and settles at the table. Slightly dreading what he expects to find, Peter holds his leg at an angle so he can better inspect it. There are small dots of red seeped into the white bandages.
It really must not have liked Peter's marathon throughout the city. That jump off that fence probably didn't help either.
Pulling and unraveling the bandages stings and pricks as some spots in the process of scabbing over are pulled away from skin; Peter is met with a bloody gauze pad underneath and a pair of matching wounds on the front and back of his leg; the front one, while still aggravated, looks relatively fine. Twisting to peer at the back wound better, he sees that one of the multiple stitches keeping the circular wound closed has broken, causing blood to trickle out.
Well, this could be a problem. Peter doubts he could do stitches where the wound is; that's if he even knew how to. He racks his brain for some sort of solution. He could just leave it alone and hope for the best, but that doesn't seem like proper wound care.
He does remember one time when his dad had gotten a laceration on his forearm and, despite his mom’s protests that it should be treated at the hospital, his father had brought out his stapler gun and given himself 4 staples to keep it closed. Peter had been about 7 at the time and, while very disgusted by the act, had thought his dad was so cool for it.
Peter winces at the memory and grits his teeth as he decides he can man up to do this. It's not like his dad is here to do it for him. Retrieving the same staple gun from one of his dad's many tool stashing spots, he returns to the same twisting position, this time staple gun in hand. Awkwardly, he pulls the raised opening closed and huffs out two breaths, hyping himself up. He yelps when the piece of metal lodges into his flesh.
Now that he thinks of it, Peter doesn't think people on medical shows use ones that look like this.
But with that problem solved, he's reminded of how tired he is. He vaguely thinks it's been about 5 hours since he woke up at the hospital. He feels exhausted, but he still has things he needs to do before he can rest. He wonders how long it'll be safe here before someone comes by to see if he's here.
Mindlessly, Peter gets up and starts making a peanut butter jelly sandwich, excluding jelly because he knew they were out of it. The sad sandwiches that he makes are dry and overly peanut butter, but they serve their purpose.
With that task completed, he still needs to shower and dress his leg wounds. He makes his way upstairs, flipping the lights off as he leaves, but before he can reach his room, he stops in front of Lisa’s cracked-open door. His vision starts getting blurry as he reaches for the handle and pulls the door closed. The click of the latch is the only sound that fills the hallway. His parents' and Frankie's doors were already shut. He continues to his own room, a small stream falling down his face. He rifles around his dresser by the door, pulling out a t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of loose-fitting shorts.
Backing out of his room with his clean change of clothes, Peter pads over to his and his siblings' shared bathroom.
Peter observes his reflection when he enters the bathroom. The boy in the reflection has a heavily bruised face blooming from underneath the bandages wrapped around his head, spreading over the left side of his face. He is still dressed in the hospital gown with the NYPD windbreaker over it. Peter frowns at the fact that he totally just stole that man’s jacket. He prods at his swollen face with his index finger and grimaces at the contact. He looks really rough right now; Peter has never seen his face look so discolored. His mother would surely fret over him if she saw him.
Letting his clothes settle on the toilet, he runs the shower by turning the temperature handle to be on the warmer side of the gauge. Backing away from the falling water, Peter figures he probably shouldn't shower with the bandages still on. He isn't really sure how to care for this wound, another reason he maybe should have stuck around a little longer at the hospital.
Curtis would probably know; his pseudo-uncle was always the most trustworthy for medical advice, even for small things. He remembered the time his mother had called Curtis when Lisa broke her arm when Peter and she were attempting to roller skate at the park.
If Peter had his phone, Curtis is the first person he'd call. The hospital staff must have taken it alongside his clothing items. But with no way to contact the corpsman, Peter continues on his course of unraveling the bandages encasing his more severe bullet wound.
It's not pretty; there's a hole in his head. In the center of all the bruising is a jagged entry wound with exposed sutures; it's a little above his left eyebrow. Turning his head, he sees a matching wound in the middle of an oddly shaved section of his hair on the side of his head.
How is he even awake right now?
Shouldn't he be in a coma or something?
Peter is pretty sure he shouldn't be up and moving after sustaining such an injury.
Peter really doesn't want to think about what the surgeons must have had to do to make him stable. He grimaces at the thought and swallows as he decides to carry on with his task. He just needs to rinse off and disinfect the areas that should be good enough, right?
While Peter showers, he does his best to leave the head wound alone, dreading the thought of anything touching it alone. He hisses when water runs over it and his lesser wound on his leg. He carefully graces soap around the two wounds, and when the soapy water inevitably touches the line of the closed wound on his leg.
Well lets just say a few words of encouragement.
The reddish water running towards the drain is rather disturbing in Peter's mind.
Deciding that's enough, Peter shuts off the running water and gets out. He quickly dries off with one of the clean towels on the shelf and puts on the set aside clothing items. He doesn't remember this shirt fitting so tightly a few months ago but casts the thought aside. As he gathers up the medical supplies that are in the bathroom cabinet. He tries his best to copy the wrappings the doctors at the hospital did. Placing a gauze pad on both sides of the wound on his leg and wrapping it securely with bandaging.
He similarly but more awkwardly repeats the same process with the one on his head. Gingerly touching it with the pad and holding it while his other hand wraps around his head. It's definitely not the same, but he tried his best, and he supposes it'll work.
Curtis probably would have told him if it was wrapped wrong.
He starts feeling this deep urge that something is going to happen, but it doesn't feel the same as the buzzing at the carousel or the hospital. This feels almost as deep as his stomach seeping into his limbs, flowing to the base of his skull. The headache that accompanies this feeling is no lighter. He almost feels like he's being dragged into the depths of a watery ravine.
Trying to catch his breath, he slides to the tiled floor of the bathroom. He's really trying, but it's just so hard too. His head feels so clouded by the steam.
Quick monochromatic flashes of figures smiling at him; he can't quite understand what's happening or why they won't look away from him.
Peter isn't sure when he went unconscious, but when he opens his eyes, he's now lying on his side on the tiled floor. He forces himself to sit up and just observes his surroundings; he doesn't remember the small fake plant being knocked over nor the two broken tiles of the floor.
Peter just sits there for a while; although there's no other noise in the house, it all feels loud. There's a mark on his hand, no doubt a forming bruise. He must have broken the tiles somehow. This day is going so great for him; he thinks numbly: first his family, now these two tiles. He just breaks everything in his life.
He doesn't want to think about the damaged bathroom floor; he doesn't want to think about the missing occupants of the house. He doesn't want to think about why he's alone right now.
Peter just really wants to go to bed.
So that's what he does; he gathers his strength and pushes himself up onto his feet. His vision sways when he does, but he steadies himself on the ledge of the sink counter. Ignoring the damage he caused, he sweeps up the windbreaker from where he discarded it, leaves the bathroom, and makes his way down the hall to his room, shutting the door behind him. He moves to his bed and sets the jacket down at the foot of the bed.
Peter finally lets himself succumb to the exhaustion.