No Choice | Peter Ballard x Reader

⧖ Late Night Recovery ⧖

Brenner gives Peter an extra day to recover, and you're incredibly thankful for his decision.

Brenner also tells you how this side of the laboratory's infirmary is going to be closed today, preventing any of the children from seeing Peter's assaulted body.

Speaking of which, you've been treating him ever since you woke up at noon. He's mostly been asking for cups of water for his dehydrated throat. Apart from that is the constant aching, but according to him, it's tremendously calmed down in comparison from last night. In all honesty, you like having this much time with Peter. You never get to see him except for food breaks during regular shifts. 

Incidentally, you're currently feeding him some taco salad from the cafeteria. You're confident that Peter can actually feed himself, but he assures you that his arms are still aching. You doubt that but, nonetheless, continue feeding him spoonfuls of the dinner provided.

"Say ahh," you tease, even going as far as to imitate airplane noises.

Peter only rolls his eyes, and he gives you a slight close-lipped smile. He hasn't talked a lot today, and you completely understand since his throat literally went through electric abuse yesterday.

"Thanks, Dove, but I want to go and brush my teeth now, please," he requests. The more the day goes on you realize there's mild swelling under his eyes. 

You help him sit up.

You put a palm on his bare chest as he attempts to stand up from the gatch bed. Peter raises an eyebrow.

"I have to get these," you pull at the lowest electrode, nearest to his pelvis, "off first, honey."

Peter leans forward. His fixed gaze puts you in a trance as you glance at his lips, and he smirks.

"Well, are you going to continue?" he asks. His eyes feign innocence.

You shake your head out of disbelief and slowly take out each wire and patch. However, for the fun of it, every time you were about to pull one off, you made sure to share complete eye contact with Peter. 

"There. You're good to go now, and I'm sure you already know that you can use my sink," you say, supporting Peter as he stands up.

Peter has not moved his legs at all in the past 24 hours, and if it weren't for you, slowly steadying him towards your sink, he would be walking like a freshly-born fawn. Now that you think about it, you kind of want to see him like that. It'll be funny.

As he leans over your sink, you grab some toothpaste and a disposable, new brush. You hand it to him. His fingers linger a little longer than normal. 

"Thank you," Peter says.

"You're we—"

"For everything," he interrupts. For a second, his eyes are completely readable like you can basically sense his genuine feelings for everything. You can sense an undying adoration, intense appreciation, and swirling acceptance in his eyes, but if you also look further—deeper into his pupils, you can sense this nerving, negative ball that's nothing but hate. Hate for what? You aren't sure. 

Peter's quick to brush his teeth, and you gently help him back to the gatch bed. You've already brushed your teeth earlier.

"You're feeling better, right?" you ask him.

"Yes, all thanks to you," he responds.

Your face reddens, and you put away the electrodes and neatly wrap the wires. You shouldn't have to worry about abnormal heart readings, so there's no need to attach them again to his chest. You're still standing while Peter is sitting on the bed. He's seated in the opposite way that he should, so that he can stare at you—his legs are partially hanging.