cigarettes and copper (1/?) (hemlock grove, AU, h/c)
Kind of an AU spinoff after season 3? I just HAD to write SOMETHING where Everybody Lives. And of course, some more disgustingly sick Peter. This time, I tried to include some plot with all the emeto self-indulgence. Enjoy!
Another pause from Roman, brewing up to a swelling, angry finish. “Shelley didn’t take Nadia.” His hand lifted from Peter’s head, lest he crush his skull beneath inhumanly strong fingers. “That fucking creep Aitor did.” He delicately closed his shaking hand into a clenched fist. “I’m gonna rip his lungs out through his nostrils when I find him. Then-”
“All right,” Destiny interrupted, raising her palms. “Why this Aitor creep would take Nadia, I’m sure none of us could understand. But, I know Shelley wouldn’t let any harm come to her. You have to trust her, Roman, until you can find this dude and get your daughter back.”
Roman lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes heavily lidded with petulance. "I came here hoping to enlist your help in that particular matter.”
A beat of silence followed, punctuated only by Peter’s weak moan. He struggled to sit up, leaning forward with urgent intent. “Rom,” he gasped. “Roman-”
Roman snatched up the trash can and held it under Peter’s chin. “I gotcha. You’re good.”
“Maybe you should try some crackers.”
Destiny stood in the living room and eyed her younger cousin with speculative concern. She held a glass of water in one hand and a hand towel in the other. Peter did not lift his head, nor look up through dark strands of lank hair. He merely closed his eyes with a low “ugh” and reached for the trash can on the floor.
“You’re dehydrated,” she continued, but softly, a little more matronly. She came over and sat beside him, setting the water glass on the coffee table. She reached out to rub circles on his back. “You’ll feel better with something on your stomach. At least it’ll be something to puke up.”
Peter’s stomach heaved, but after several hours of exactly that, nothing came up. He coughed harshly. Tears spilled down his face, and he involuntarily lurched over the trash can again. Destiny rubbed his back, wordlessly, offering the same encouragement and comfort she’d already been giving him, and her brow creased further with worry as she listened to his labored gasps, thick with nausea and pitiful with pain. She knew his stomach had to be killing him.
“I think it’s hospital time, cuz,” she murmured, keeping one hand on the trash can as he struggled to catch his breath, panting halfway to sobs. “It’s way past hospital time.”
“Nnnn-” groaned Peter, spitting and shaking his head, still unable to unearth himself from the can. “No…no…jus’ gotta sleep. Wanna sleep.”
Destiny let him sit for a moment longer so he could gather what little bearings he had left, and then she reached out and carefully extricated the trash can from his grip. He wearily lifted his head, cautiously, and his breathing was soft and measured.
“It’s okay,” she reassured him, keeping one hand on his shoulder and offering him the hand towel with the other. “You’ll be okay. But you gotta try and drink something. The spins aren’t gonna go away. And you’re more dried out than Aunt Anja.”
That got a slight chuckle from Peter, in between his pants of exertion, and it seemed to lend him the strength to reach for the glass of water on the coffee table with a shaking hand. He took a tentative sip, swallowing visibly and contorting his whole face with revulsion. “…don’t think it’s gonna stay down,” he whispered, face already going ominously white.
Destiny held the trash can under his chin in time for the water to come back up with another series of abortive dry heaves that left him trembling and gasping, tears streaming.
“Peter,” she began, face grave. “There’s only so much the tea can do. We gotta get-”
A sudden knock at the door caused them both to glance over (Peter’s reaction time being considerably slower than hers).
“Peter? You home?”
It was Roman.
“th’fuck’s he doin’ here?” croaked Peter, shakily bringing the towel up to his mouth. Exhaustion weighed oppressively over his skull, his shoulders, wracking his whole frame. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and lose consciousness (perhaps permanently) but the dizziness and nausea would inevitably wake him after only twenty minutes or so of uneasy rest, rendering this recovery period worse than several of the others he could recall.
(he wanted Lynda. He wanted his mom)
Destiny said nothing, but rose to her feet, already crossing over to the apartment door.
The knocking continued, swelling to a more insistent pounding at the door. “Peter, I got a lead on Nadia and Shelley. Let me in!”
Adrenaline surged through Peter, and he struggled to stand, gripping the arm of the couch for leverage. “Let him in!” He urged, as strongly as his ravaged voice was capable.
Destiny unlatched the chain and swung open the door. In surged Roman, eight feet tall and swathed entirely in sleek black. His expression was thunderous, if a storm could be statuesque. “Peter,” he began, eyes widening even more when he saw how sick Peter was. “Jesus.”
“Roman…” Peter tried, succumbing to a surge of vertigo and collapsing back onto the couch. His head swam, the currents pounding thickly in a tight band around his skull. “Rom…”
Distantly, he was aware of hurried shuffling, of his cousin’s worried voice and of the sudden shock of upir-cold hands pressing against his face, his neck, taking his pulse.
“Peter?” That was Roman’s breath in his face, cigarettes and copper. “Hey. You’re okay.” Then, louder and aimed away from him: “How long’s he been puking?”
“Too long,” Destiny replied tersely. “My tea’s not working. Might have to go gaje.”
No, Peter thought – tried, really; mouth forming the syllables but no sound escaping – NO!
Roman’s hand settled cold and comforting over his forehead, fingertips pressing lightly into his temples, beginning to massage gently. “This one’s bad,” he murmured. “Your cousin’s right. Can’t keep on like this, you’ll shrivel up and die.”
“Nnnn…” Peter attempted once more, the tenuous grip he had on consciousness focused solely on his own breathing and Roman’s hand on his forehead. Seeing was not an option, and certainly not moving. “Nadia…yyyou said…”
“Pryce’s security,” Roman revealed in murmured baritone. “I had them dispatched, looking for her and Shelley. They’re together.” He paused (probably for dramatic effect; he was Olivia Godfrey’s son, above all else, much as he loathed to admit). “Traffic cam near Columbus caught plates matching the ones on the truck parked outside the steel mill. Got some pictures of all three of ‘em. They’re headed west.”
“Nadia’s with your sister?” Destiny interjected, brow furrowed. “She just took her with on their little road trip?”
Another pause from Roman, brewing up to a swelling, angry finish. “Shelley didn’t take Nadia.” His hand lifted from Peter’s head, lest he crush his skull beneath inhumanly strong fingers. “That fucking creep Aitor did.” He delicately closed his shaking hand into a clenched fist. “I’m gonna rip his lungs out through his nostrils when I find him. Then-”
“All right,” Destiny interrupted, raising her palms. “Why this Aitor creep would take Nadia, I’m sure none of us could understand. But, I know Shelley wouldn’t let any harm come to her. You have to trust her, Roman, until you can find this dude and get your daughter back.”
Roman lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes heavily lidded with petulance. "I came here hoping to enlist your help in that particular matter.”
A beat of silence followed, punctuated only by Peter’s weak moan. He struggled to sit up, leaning forward with urgent intent. “Rom,” he gasped. “Roman-”
Roman snatched up the trash can and held it under Peter’s chin. “I gotcha. You’re good.”
“Oh, Peter,” murmured Destiny as Peter mustered up a straining heave, then coughed, once, and sagged emptily over the can, hair hanging. She looked at Roman, eyes serious. “We gotta get him to a doctor.”
“Yeah,” Roman agreed, rubbing Peter’s back. He met Destiny’s gaze again, full lips pursed in determination. “Pryce should still be at the Tower. We’ll take my car.”
Peter only vaguely heard Destiny’s reply. Everything faded away to his own heartbeat in his ears; his pulse boomed quick and weak and shocky, wooshing in time with the currents of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him completely. Inside – deep inside his cavern, where he lay in retreat till the next full moon – the wolf curled up, ears low, and ceased to offer any strength.
Shee-it, he thought, and gave in, slumping over into Roman’s arms.
