2013.10.26 - I Won't Say No, How Could I?

So halfway through the Muir operation, after Pete had talked to Shift some more, the Englishman was sort of--

Well, certainly angrier than Amy'd ever seen him. Livid, actually. Some people get explosive when they're angry, some people get hateful; Wisdom gets tense and clipped and uncommunicative, grim. The only gaps in his tight silence had been a vicious sort of smug at the Coffee Maker of Pestilence, and an obviously severe effort on his part to avoid taking it out on anyone there. There'd even been forced smiles a couple of times, whenever Amy or Rain said or did anything to warrant it--

--and brief contact, here and there, as if to emphasize 'it's not you'.

But upon getting back to Manhattan, the guy essentially disappeared into working. Go out, get takeaway, shut self into one of the less intimidating parlours with newspapers, laptop, and smartphone. Nights, he disappeared, only taking the phone; a few times the light in that room was still on come daybreak; he only went up to the Helicarrier once, Meggan giving him a nearly supersonic ride there. Leaving that room otherwise seemed to be a 'chainsmoke on the sidewalk or find where the loo had got off to' thing.

Finally, after the incident with Pestilence in midtown Metropolis and the crazy Meggan ride to the Helicarrier, the fury'd slowed down; he was away for a whole night and day.

Now? Now it's eveningish, and he's grey with exhaustion, hands trembling a little, chucking a stack of newspapers in Strange's recycle bin; tired angry wars with the edges of grief starting to seep in. And he's probably lost another five pounds.

For entirely more selfish reasons, Amy has been avoiding Pete as well.

She has been doing this, in her own quiet way, since the night at Moontree manor. It was not a malicious or forceful shunning. Amy gave Pete space, letting him define the boundaries of their contact. Even now that he is an island apart, she does not mind. Or, she wouldn't, if it wasn't for the way it's happening.

The outer grounds of the Sanctum Sanctorum are tricky. From the front, and above, they appear to be only a modest dozen feet or so between the house and the wall. There are entire gardens there, if you know where the look. The recycling is on a stoop next to the kitchen entrance. It's not pretty, but it is visible from one of the living room windows.

Amy stands there, watching Pete struggle with paper. With a touch of her amulet, she prepares herself to confront him. Her pajamas stay. It's just her hair that changes, going back to black and short.

When Pete attempts to come back inside, he is blocked by the gothiest princess, who now has even more of a weight advantage on him. Her expression is carefully neutral. "Hey."

Pete looks up at Amy, and there's a war in his eyes for a second-- a second where his answering gaze is shuttered, closed off. But he can't. He's too tired, but if it were anyone but Amy, he'd do it anyway. Put a mask on. It is the gothiest princess, though, and he can't.

He just looks for a second after that, eyes a muddy brown instead of their usual sharp blue, a little bloodshot; he's rocking a two-day stubble which does nothing for his too-thin and too-pale face with the dark circles under his eyes. And it's a black hole of grief he's shoving down and away, and looking at her makes it a losing battle.

"Please," he finally manages, edges of his voice ragged. He looks like if he didn't have an iron will, his face would be crumpling. One hand moves abortively at his side. He's working on the rest of the sentence. Then it's just, "I need to sit down. And, and then-- make some tea. With scotch in. And then..." he trails off.

They stare at each other, the kitchen light and height from the stairs on her side, the recycling and city noise on his. Amy grew up getting hit in the face with sticks, on purpose only most of the time. She can keep a straight face.

After he says please, why would she want to?

Amy is by Pete's side before he can finish verbally mangling his thoughts. She encourages his arm over her shoulder and puts her arm around his waist, insistent but not forceful. If she leans down just a little, she can support him up the stairs. "Fuck yes you do, ohmygod Pete! What have you been taking? Dexadrine? No scotch! It'll put you to sleep and you'll wake up still tired."

"It's--" he says helplessly, not at all refusing the help; he's got an even higher temperature than normal, and he feels as bony and fragile as someone's great-granddad, complete with shakiness. "Been fifteen hours. Since the last." So yes. "Don't want real sleep yet. Not until-- it's over." He has to stop and just-- stop. For a moment, at the top of the stairs, he leans on Amy, eyes shut tight, fighting harder to keep from looking any more emotional than he already is. It's possible!

And then he'll move again, face the one someone makes when they are determined to put one foot in front of the other. "The data's out, though. The data's out and the people better at collecting it-- they're on it now, it'll-- it won't be all right, but it'll get better, it'll get better and-- and we can move on. Sefton-- Sefton, she'll be calling, needs your help. I have to sit down."

Amy stares straight ahead. She doesn't want to see what she's feeling: the fever and thinness. Despite her protections, Pestilence and Famine have touched Pete. She hugs him closer, uselessly trying to stop his shaking.

"You can't help fix this if you put yourself in the hospital, Pete," the princess says in her princess voice. It's not like in the movies. Princesses can order heads chopped off, or do it themselves. He slumps against her and maybe that's it--

--but it isn't. When Pete tries to walk away, Amy deftly sweeps his legs out from under him and catches his falling, frail body in both her arms. She readjusts her grip, one arm beneath his shoulders and one beneath his knees. It's no weight problem, but he is gangly and awkward. "Sefton. Got it. I'll tell Wong. You're going to go to sleep and when you wake up, I'll help you finish this."

"--" there is really no way to even invent some sort of onomatopoeia for the sound Pete makes when Amy picks him up-- literally sweeps him off his feet. It's startled dizziness and when she's got him hoisted he's tense, hand over his eyes, grimacing. "For fuck's sake," he says tiredly, bitterly, "put me down. Not going in the hospital."

He shifts, trying to get her to let him down. And his voice just gets dull. "Need to pass out, not sleep. You sleep, you dream. Can't afford that until 's over. No more dex, don't need it anymore. Maybe eat first."

"Yeah, you're not going to the hospital, because I'm being a responsible adult."

Amy turns sideways to get through the kitchen door frame and into the hall. She navigates the stairs with similar agility, treating Pete like a particularly lumpy pillow. He is too feeble to match the bloodpower of House Amethyst.

"I'll put a spell on you. No dreams. Trust in sparkly stuff, remember? I saw you grinning when I said that." She continues down the hall. It seems so short a time, but they are outside Pete's room. Thump goes the door, kicked in. From Pete's view, he can only see her frowning. "You really trashed the place. And there's no bed in here. Have you been in a parlor this entire time? Okay. Guest room."

He is totally too feeble. Really there's no way in hell he can match her strength at his best, but right now, he's hovering on the brink of his limit. So he just sighs, drops his head against Amy's quite conveniently placed shoulder, and mutters, "Was cleaning up. Ain't going to the hospital 'cos I've done this before. Know when I have to stop." Pause. "'Bout now." Then he grumbles, "How'm I meant to know there's such a thing as magic sleep." Another pause.

"Please put me down?"

"Almost," Amy says with grim resolve. The hallway seems five miles long, but she's making good time. "Come on. It's not every day you get carried around by royalty. That's worth something, right?"

Thump. Another door down. The room is cozy and unintimidating, predominantly wood with lots of soft blue things. A chair, a window seat, a bed. Amy stops at the side of the latter, looking between it and her passenger. She shifts his weight again, but only so she can wiggle her fingers. The comforter and sheets mystically pull back. No fluffed pillow, though.

Finally, Pete gets his wish. Amy lays him out on the bed but does not stop meddling. She goes to work on his shoes, so he doesn't add too much to Wong's chores. If Wong even does chores. Maybe it's magic.

"There. You're down. I'm going to stay with you until you fall asleep."

The man still has the presence of mind to tug off his tie, not even arguing Amy taking off his shoes, just-- not arguing. He'd really like to, but for one, he'd lose, for two, he'd lose for good reason, and for three, it's more effort than he really has to spare right now. The tie gets dropped more or less on the nightstand, enough of it not hanging off that it won't fall to the floor.

And Amy says she's not leaving until he's asleep.

What's he going to say, 'no'? 'Don't'? She wouldn't listen anyway, not unless he told her why, but-- psh like he'd say 'but I don't want you to see me cry'.

So instead, when his shoes are off, he just-- turns on his side away from her and half mashes his face in the pillow, pulling himself up almost into a ball; his hand curls around his arm. Defense, turned in on himself, and so very tight. And then he can't actually hide the shaking. There's a tiny muffled thick voice, then. "Make me sleep?"

Amy tosses the shoes aside, then pulls up the sheets. She steps back, crosses her arms, and sees the shaking.

The matronly character she had constructed for herself to play now seems tiny and foolish. She's foolish, for stepping into this man's life and playing at being someone like him. Pete's back shudders and shakes and hers is unbent. SHIELD, the X-Men, Odame and Genosha and the plagues--the things she's seen on the news while reading spellbooks and eating cereal--are his life. They're deep enough in him to tear out his heart.

The princess looms over him with a face full of despair. She complained to Strange today that she didn't want to be consumed by her duties as a goddess of order. It was not the first time. His appeals to the greater good of mankind had only half swayed her. Again, familiar territory. One of her subjects asks her for a boon, unaware that she is an itinerant deity at best.

"Yeah, Pete," Amy murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair. The fever and sickness flee from her, leaving his body through the soles of his feet. Sleep seems like a pleasant choice, then, even if he really has no say in the matter.

"Goodnight."