ArchivedLogs:PeterDelivery
| PeterDelivery | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2013-05-22 Jackson delivers a Peter to an Ivan! |
| Location
<XS> School Grounds | |
Xavier's School is situated on grounds as luxurious as the mansion itself. The tree-lined drive brings you up to the lush green sweep of front lawn and the wide front porch with its bench swing, often frequented by students studying in pleasant weather. The large oak tree in the front yard is home to a tire swing, installed long ago beneath the sturdy old treehouse. The lawn rolls out all the way down to the thin rocky pier at the edge of the glittering lake. The water stretches huge and wide off into the distance, the boathouse a small blip at its shore. Along its bank, forest stretches dense and shady to one side; to the other cliffs start to rise, high and rocky, providing trails for hiking or climbing, for the adventurous. Inside the car, Peter calmly sits. The grungy pair of sweatpants he got from his stay in mutant murderfight camp has been swapped with a cleaner (albeit older) pair; he’s also wearing an old BLACK SABBATH shirt they found for him at the clinic. While there, he had his first real opportunity to wash himself -- well, mostly his /hair/ -- but after a quick check-over, it was determined that while he should be hospitalized, there was no particular reason he couldn’t be hospitalized at the /school/. There’s also the fact that Peter /really/ didn’t want to stay at the clinic. So, here he is, getting a ride with Jackson, buzzing out on a prescription of codeine for the pain -- his body just a patchwork pastiche of stitches beneath his clothes (stitches that will all have to probably be removed, wounds cleaned, and redressed), a pair of crutches jutting up beside him. He hasn’t said much during the trip. Maybe a few questions about how they found him; maybe asking Jackson if the twins are okay. It isn’t until they’re passing through those gates that he starts to stir with activity. “...is Ivan mad?” Peter asks, quite promptly. “I mean I--the night before I disappeared,” he continues, staring a bit at his feet. “...I was talking to him about -- I told him about how we’d both try to be a lot safer, and,” he fidgets, voice becoming a little softer. “I think I didn’t do that so well.” “Ivan didn’t seem mad at you, honey-honey.” Jackson has been less calm, really. Kind of /vibrating/ with a restless sort of energy ever since leaving the clinic -- where he /was/ calmer, if /busy/, flitting from person to person to person to help with getting everyone fed and clothed and cared-for and settled, making sure his /team/ as well as the rescuees were taken care of. He’s still drab. Dark cargo pants. Dark blue t-shirt. Black eyepatch. His fingers drum rapidly against the steering wheel as they head down the drive and he slips into the garage. “Was worried as anything, but weren’t none of this your /fault/.”
“Yeah but I mean, well. I guess -- /yeah/ it wasn’t, but--” Peter struggles for a moment for words as they settle inside of the garage. Gathering up his crutches with a grimace. He’ll probably need help getting out of the car; even with the codeine, he’s having a hard time moving without pain. Once the door’s open and he’s got a hand getting himself out, though, he’s on top of those crutches -- and removing with surprising speed! He’s actually quite quick on the things, even if he’s leaning heavily on the right one -- his left arm still wrapped in bandages from a bite. “--I just, y’know, I told him... I would be safe. And then -- I went out and, um. Did some not-safe stuff. I mean, I guess you’re right, I just...” Peter follows Jackson’s lead, wherever he’s taking him. Peering down at the concrete as he moves, slinging the crutches. “...just feel kind of, wrong? I guess. Telling him one thing then doing something else.” Click, click. Jackson is firing off some texts, before he helps Peter out of the car, but then he gets up and out of the car himself to give the boy a hand. “Then -- maybe y’should tell him a thing and do that thing, yeah? I mean, what happened /still/ weren’t your fault. But doin’ what you told him’s another question entire.” He locks the car behind them, hands slipping into his pockets as he ambles alongside Peter. Out of the garage, along the side of the building. Towards the front porch! On the porch sits a student. Sitting curled up in a stray spot of sunlight, one elbow across propped up knees, the other with its wrist pressed onto increasingly dark circles under tired eyes. Nnh. Ivan has not been sleeping very well lately, dressed in white dress shirt with one sleeve pinned up and one hanging down across his forearm, jeans and halfway tied converse sneakers, and looking sort of a /mess/. His cellphone lies next to him, and he blearily stares toward it like the world depends on it. Or perhaps he's dozed off with his eyes half open. This is entirely possible. “Yeah,” Peter agrees, and for a moment it might look like he’s going to throw in a ‘BUT’ there, except: “...yeah,” he just repeats, and then goes right back to swinging his crutches forward, with a steady click, click, click. Once they come around the corner and into view of the front porch, Peter’s /peering/ at the student in the distance, the steady sweep of his crutches getting a little faster; when he recognizes him, he makes a little sound up at Jackson: “Oh. Oh, oh, he’s -- right... there--” Crutches proceed to /swing/ forward, propelling him into a precariously unbalanced trot, slinging himself toward the student. “--Ivan. Ivan! IvanheyIVANIVAN.” Any concern about Ivan being angry with him seems to just /evaporate/ at the sight of him. Peter is building up, slowly, toward a bull-charge. Jackson hangs back, when Peter starts to charge. He follows to near the porch steps, watching this with a small smile on his face. He doesn’t speak, though. His hands fold behind his back. His expression is kind of tired, but the smile chases some of the exhaustion away. Ivan is not incredibly fast to respond - looks like he HAD dozed off. He twitches a shoulder upon hearing his name, and draags his head into an upward position slowly. Nn? Peter receives nary more than a glance, Jackson being the more recognisable of the two. But the other teen's enthusiasm draws his tired eyes back to the former, and his eyes scan that unfamiliar face as he slowly begins to stand, picking up his phone on the way. Wait... unfamiliar...? The voice rather than appearance of his friend finally seems to hit him, and... clank-a-thud, goes his phone, onto the steps of the porch. No words, he just leeaaans forward like he's being pulled by some invisible string, and /walks/. MARCHES FORTH, the laces of his poorly tied shoes and all. Arms outstretched, eyebrows promptly appearing to enter a race for which one of them can make it slightly up and to the middle of his face first. No words. “Ivan,” Peter continues, just /dragging/ himself forward with those crutches. “IvanIvan/Ivan/ holycrap /IVAN/,” Peter exclaims, and -- the moment he is getting close to arm’s length, Peter jams his crutches into the ground, anchoring himself before /catapulting/ his torso toward Ivan’s, releasing the clutches and just kind of -- FLING -- right toward him. Arms outstretched. It’s probably not going to be the prettiest of meet-ups, because -- under those clothes? Peter is /covered/ in stitches. So the moment he hits Ivan, he is /squealing/ with pain, but he’s also wrapping arms around him and /hugging/, so tight it might threaten to bruise. “OhmyGod /IVAN/,” Peter says, way louder than he has to. “Ivan, Ivan, I was in -- some sort of horrible mutant FIGHT CAMP they made us --” WHUMP. Face to shoulder, with Peter teetering against Ivan. Throat clenching, making little helpless happy sounds. Mixed with pained sounds, and sad sounds. Just, kind of wheezy against him. “--didn’t think--” Peter says, little hiccuping noises coming out of him. “--see you again.” Jackson continues to watch this in quiet. His smile grows. Juuust a little. And then he slips around the others, heading up the steps to continue into the school and leave the teenagers to their reuniting. Bhh. Pain? PAIN? Ivan catches Peter readily, albeit with a bit of a sharp exhale in surprise and a brief struggle to stay upright. Upon noises of pain, though, he finds himself torn- let go, or hug TIGHTER? ... HUG TIGHTER it is. He throws a last glance towards Jackson, over Peter's shoulder, expression one of utter cluelessness, before his arms reach around his friend as tight as he can manage. His expression changes several times but never quite manages to decide what it wants to convey, beyond the fact that he hasn't quite managed to make sense of the situation just yet, apart from... Friend. Hug. Possibly until the end of time. Also chitin? This comes only second, however. He does his best to keep the two of them standing, dishing out the beariest hug he has ever managed to bear hug. He was told not to bring bees, but a plethora of differently sized little spiders rapidly crawl from his hair and sleeves now, descending upon Peter to latch onto his arms and back. Some of them might promptly be constructing little webs in their excitement, perhaps to trap their oversized prey. Finally, Ivan mumbles hoarsely, "You are back." “Back,” Peter agrees, kind of weakly, still just /hugging/. Rubbing his face all over Ivan’s shoulder and neck. The skitter of bugs does not seem to bother him; if getting spiders all over his arms and hands were something that genuinely shocked him, he’d probably /never/ give Ivan hugs. “Ivan, it was so--” he begins, but this apparently was going nowhere, because his voice just hitches as he continues to rub his face against Ivan. “--I have chitin, now,” Peter announces, just kind of weakly, a bit of dampness smearing off his face and against Ivan. Slowly beginning to ease back on the hug -- but not /releasing/. Maybe the spiders will web his arms to Ivan’s shoulders and the two will exist in a HUG-COCOON. “So much, stuff. Ivan, oh man it -- was unreal, I had to fight a tree. And a lizard-kid. And the /twins/, Ivan,” and this might be said with a bit more focus, a bit more /worry/ -- as if Ivan were about to run off and do this very thing Peter is warning him never to do: “Ivan /never/ fight the twins, /never ever/ fight the twins.” Guess who is NOT easing back on the hug. It is IVAN. He may, in fact, be attempting to drag Peter toward the porch, of half a mind his efforts may be futile but trying /anyway/. Several nods leave him through all of this, one slightly hesitantly when Peter announces his new, chitinous state. Fortunately it seems to do little to discourage Ivan from attempting to haul his friend off inside, arms still tightening around the other's torso. Crutches be DAMNED, they're getting left behind. His phone, too. "I will not fight them." He answers, sternly and immediately after he is told not to, confidence and determination welling up as if to make up for what Peter currently lacks. More confusing information gets filtered out from that which he can actually comprehend, which shortly afterward results in him asking, "Are they all right?" Then, as if he's realised he's getting stuff in the wrong order, he presses more urgently, DRAGGING still, "Are /you/?" Peter is pretty easily dragged toward the porch. He is even helping, a little! But just a little. One of his legs is not really in the mood to cooperate right now, but the other one is more than happy to give a steady /kick/ in the direction of the porch, even as he stumbles forward a little while locked into a hug with Ivan. “Oh man I can’t -- even /walk/ right now,” Peter warns Ivan, though it’s accompanied by Peter doing just that -- hop, hop, toward the porch. “Y-yeah, they’re -- yeah,” Peter replies, a little wheezy and breathless at Ivan’s question as they lumber up the stairs. ONE LEG AT A TIME. Shifting his embrace, just a bit, until he’s got -- one arm around Ivan’s shoulder, just kind of /leaning/ on him and using him as his temporary crutch. Smiling, mixed with equal parts happies, reliefs, and sads. “They’re okay,” Peter agrees. “I’m okay. Kind of chewed up. I’ll be fine, probably in a week or something. They gotta check over my stitches, make sure they’re, uh, uh,” as they ascend the final step, Peter just reaches over with the arm that released Ivan and, HUG AGAIN. “I’msorryI’mkindofamessrightnow.” Hug, or lean, or hug, Ivan is fine with ALL of the things. He does his best to support Peter in not falling over, squirming this way and that in cooperation, but just as easily HUGS BACK again, determination still clear on his face. Like he's in he middle of winning a /race/ and bracing for the finishline. ... But wait, what? Now that they're stopping for another hug, his brain catches up. He pulls away to look into Peter's eyes - to his credit, only twice briefly distracted by the fact that they are now surrounded by black chitin - and repeats, "You were in a fight camp. {They put you in a-}" He slips into Russian without thought. The increasingly large number of spiders on both of them buckle down, tighten on their skin. Even away from the porch... there may now be an increased number of insect and arachnids just kind of... gravitating towards them in the air and over the ground, slowly, from spots of green around the grounds. It would probably be more impressive were they not nearly all harmless little things. Ivan's jaw tightens, along with the arm still resting against his friend. His staring eyes do not leave Peter's, locked. "{Where are they now.}" After the hug, Peter hobbles toward the railing -- just kind of displacing his weight down against the railing, divvying it up between Ivan and the beam of wood. Still a little wheezy, but recovering some of his composure. There’s yet /another/ quick (but far less ferocious) hug; he’s starting to remember that this /hurts/. “Nnngh. Yeah. There was -- it was. They put us in fights against other -- it was like, with an audience, and.” The Russian throws Peter off; he’s been learning it, but over the past month he hasn’t had much opportunity to /use/ it. His nose scrunches up for a moment, thinking about what Ivan just said. “...where--the twins?” Peter asks. “They’re in, the lake I think. They got -- the guards beat them up pretty bad, and starved them, and... or do you mean the guards,” Peter asks, voice a bit more /tentative/ at that possibility. "The people who took you. Who kept you." Ivan explains, tone of voice level and face still resolutely /set/, frozen past a twitch of an eyebrow when the twins' condition is mentioned. Everything is ALL WRONG and he does not like it. The railing's not good enough. He starts moving again, pulling Peter with him, maybe a bit too fast considering the other boy's condition - but he is /going places/. Right now. Probably the dorms. Ivan's found a Peter and he's KEEPING HIM. Maybe he if stays out too long, a giant eagle will show up and snatch the chitinous teen up again. Behind them, all sorts of creepy crawlies and flying bugs swarm, still. Increasingly easier to see in their swelling numbers, brushing past lawn foliage and tiled paths, up the porch steps as fast as their wings or little legs will carry them. Peter is /still/ a pretty leadable dude at this point. Basically, Peter’s sheep and Ivan is SHEEP-DOG. There is -- pain, but so long as Peter can lean on Ivan, he can shift the majority of his weight on the one leg he has that /hasn’t/ been mauled, clawed, or bitten. The chitin-clad boy gives a nervous glance at the horde of insect followers they’re gathering -- a tentative little “Ivan?” as he’s lead down the hall, toward the dorms -- but, Ivan’s insistence on both getting Peter inside and getting answers about his captors is more than sufficient to overwhelm any resistance Peter might have. “I--I don’t know,” Peter says. “Hive -- I think he, controlled them? When they found us. They said he just made them walk out, and... I don’t know what Jax and the others are doing with them.” There is, /maybe/ something apprehensive in Peter’s voice. “They were -- uh I think they were... police. We shouldn’t -- you shouldn’t -- I know you are probably, uh. /Really/ angry with them.” The arm Peter has around Ivan squeezes yet again. “...but, I’m here. We’re okay. I’m not -- gonna go into the city for a while. Ivan I, uh,” Peter leans in hard on Ivan as they come around a corner, /maybe/ toward the elevator. “...I’m sorry I was kind of not. Safe. That night? After I told you we should be,” Peter explains, voice weak and tiny. “I kind of did -- I’m not going to do anything dangerous for a while. I’m -- do you mind if we go to -- the med-lab? I think, uh, I think they need to. I think if I lay down somewhere I’m probably not gonna get up for a while.” Peter’s head just kind of /shoves/ against the side of Ivan’s. SHOVE. Cheek-squish. Hhhk. Ivan momentarily stops when the weight on him increases, like he might /nearly/ topple. But after a brief respite, he carries on. With all the grace and apparent strength of a kitten attempting to drag a roast turkey up a stairwell. HHNGH. But he manages. At the headshove, he shoves back. Mutual cheek-squish. Even if his is all /sorts/ of pent up tense right now. When the elevator doors close, they do so before his miniature friends are able to catch up, leaving a few hundred of them behind in the hall for other students or staff to deal with. Have fun with that. A few of them ALMOST make it! ... Crunch, go the doors. Ivan's finger hovers over the 'FL2' button - the dorms, SAFETY - before... he lowers his arm and presses the 'BL1' button instead - med-lab it is. Then he bends his knees, PULLS at Peter's arm to pull him closer, and gets right back up again with a better grip, one arm around his friend while his free hand grabs for Peter's hand. He says nothing. Just stares at the doors, head slightly dipped. Perfectly calm. Perfectly still. If he's ever had murder on the brain, this... is probably what it looks like. Peter watches with wide-eyed surprise as Ivan commits what LOOKS to be mass bug murder. Well, maybe just a few bugs. However many FAIL to escape the closing doors. But then he’s just, kind of /laying/ on top of Ivan, making a little ‘hkt’ sound as he re-adjusts his grip, and -- shoving his face down against Ivan’s shoulder and neck. When Ivan grabs Peter’s free hand, he gives a little squeeze -- Peter’s skin/chitin is smooth in most places, though both his palms have been bandaged, stitches forming a line-shaped lump down their centers, where his hands were apparently split open at some point. There is a /lot/ of weight on Ivan, now. Peter is trying to not just /slump/ atop of him, but. He is kind of failing at that. His good leg still stays steady, though. He just makes a muffled sound, followed by, maybe something that sounds like “m’sorry”, and “thank you”. And, as the doors open, a mumbled “missed you”. Followed by, LIMP, LIMP, to med-lab. Where he’ll probably just whump on top of a bed like a wounded pet. | |
