Today, it's Pete and Patrick
Aug. 22nd, 2011 02:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
venetia_sassyThis is a bit from Pete's POV not long after he's been rescued by Patrick and his pack from a research lab. Pete is, uh, not very with it here. Basic 'verse information here.
Pain, pain, so much pain. Had there been pain before? Had there been a Before? Before the scalpels and the needles and the cold, cold minds digging into his?
Pete.
Pete? Who was Pete? It wasn't him, he didn't have name, did he? They never called him by a name. He was a subject, a body of experimentation.
Pete.
His parents hadn't called him Pete. Where were his parents? They'd given him a name. But then they went away. He broke, stopped being perfect and they went away, let the cold minds have him. He wasn't perfect anymore, couldn't be Peter Lewis Kingston III anymore. Peter Lewis Kingston III had been a perfect Psy, like his father, like his mother.
Pete, wake up.
Waking up meant more experiments, more pain. He didn't want to wake up, he wanted to stop, to die, to go somewhere where there was no pain. He wanted it to end.
Pete, wake up, you're dreaming, you're not there anymore.
The lab, the lab, of course he was in the lab, there was nowhere else, only the lab, he'd never been anywhere else, only in the lab with pain and tears and cold minds -
No Pete, you're not there. Wake up, listen to my voice and follow it. You're not there anymore.
He woke up, gasping for breath but holding still, not jerking against the straps, the straps were always there, they hurt if he pulled too hard. There was only one mind near his and turning his head - he could turn his head, that was good, he hated to have his head immobilised - he saw the ginger-haired man sitting beside the bed.
"Hey, Pete, hey," the man said quietly. "You here with me now?"
He looked at the man - quiet voice, warm mind - then slowly took in the details of the room around them. Natural materials, colours, lots of colours. The bed was soft, the pillow was soft, the covers were warm - there were no straps. Nothing was holding him down. He looked back at the man.
"Patrick. I remember. You're Patrick. And you call me Pete."
The man - Patrick - reached out and stroked his face, gently, so gently. "That's right. Pete and Patrick." He couldn't resist leaning into the touch, even as it made him shiver to do something so un-Psy. But it was okay here. Safe. He was safe with Patrick.
"Safe. I'm safe here. With you."
Psy didn't have facial expressions. He didn't know what the twist of Patrick's lips meant but his touch stayed gentle. "That's right, Pete. You'll always be safe with me. I promise."
Pain, pain, so much pain. Had there been pain before? Had there been a Before? Before the scalpels and the needles and the cold, cold minds digging into his?
Pete.
Pete? Who was Pete? It wasn't him, he didn't have name, did he? They never called him by a name. He was a subject, a body of experimentation.
Pete.
His parents hadn't called him Pete. Where were his parents? They'd given him a name. But then they went away. He broke, stopped being perfect and they went away, let the cold minds have him. He wasn't perfect anymore, couldn't be Peter Lewis Kingston III anymore. Peter Lewis Kingston III had been a perfect Psy, like his father, like his mother.
Pete, wake up.
Waking up meant more experiments, more pain. He didn't want to wake up, he wanted to stop, to die, to go somewhere where there was no pain. He wanted it to end.
Pete, wake up, you're dreaming, you're not there anymore.
The lab, the lab, of course he was in the lab, there was nowhere else, only the lab, he'd never been anywhere else, only in the lab with pain and tears and cold minds -
No Pete, you're not there. Wake up, listen to my voice and follow it. You're not there anymore.
He woke up, gasping for breath but holding still, not jerking against the straps, the straps were always there, they hurt if he pulled too hard. There was only one mind near his and turning his head - he could turn his head, that was good, he hated to have his head immobilised - he saw the ginger-haired man sitting beside the bed.
"Hey, Pete, hey," the man said quietly. "You here with me now?"
He looked at the man - quiet voice, warm mind - then slowly took in the details of the room around them. Natural materials, colours, lots of colours. The bed was soft, the pillow was soft, the covers were warm - there were no straps. Nothing was holding him down. He looked back at the man.
"Patrick. I remember. You're Patrick. And you call me Pete."
The man - Patrick - reached out and stroked his face, gently, so gently. "That's right. Pete and Patrick." He couldn't resist leaning into the touch, even as it made him shiver to do something so un-Psy. But it was okay here. Safe. He was safe with Patrick.
"Safe. I'm safe here. With you."
Psy didn't have facial expressions. He didn't know what the twist of Patrick's lips meant but his touch stayed gentle. "That's right, Pete. You'll always be safe with me. I promise."
