Kid, tell me what happened: The Sequel

I'm Your Medicine

Peter softly exhales but he doesn’t make a sound. He wishes he did, that way he could be reminded that he actually did indeed live, and wasn’t just a trapped prisoner in his own mind. The human mind, Peter thinks, is a very complex thing. It’s made of a different breed of wiring unlike a circuit board yet their functions are dual; one and the same.

At least that’s what Peter reads off his homework as his cheek is pressed against the smooth expanse of his desk, pen close in hand. The human brain is just as delicate, Peter reads from his textbook, like a circuit board and when damaged, it can have nerving and permanent effects. Which is why when the brain sustains damage, the route to recovery may sometimes be difficult, if not impossible. 

Suddenly his head hurts. At first, it’s a quiet prick reminding Peter of what numbness used to feel like The prick quickly becomes a scream, a loud violent scream demanding to be heard just like all the similar instances before. 

This, Peter thinks about. He doesn’t know why he keeps on hurting, yet he does. It’s a force of randomity, choosing when it will strike upon its next victim. The stabbing white-hot fury has been going on for months. The fury is so strong that tears begin to well up in the teenager’s eyes and spill silently down his cream-colored face. 

The Stark-Rogers stands, slowly as to not aggravate the screams in his head even more. Despite the effort, the ache in his head increases tenfold and Peter presses a hand to his face in order to stop his vision from blurring uncontrollably. The ringing in his ears stings and Peter bites down on his lip to prevent himself from a cry written in anguish. So hard that blood spills into Peter’s mouth as an attempt to nullen the void. He needs his dads, Peter thinks, and uses to propel himself further. 

The teenager is unconsciously crying as he trudges down the hallway and into his papa’s arms. Steve was leafing through another novel as he picked up when the father heard a soft sound of sniffling that could be from only one person. A fatherly switch enabled over him and his captain dad senses were tingling. He lifted his gaze and a feeling of sadness washed over him. His child, the one he and his husband took in after finding four-month-old him abandoned in an alley was crying silently as his bleeding lip quivered. Peter was red-faced and blotchy, a hand trying to massage his head as he tried his hardest not to break down. 

Steve’s expression is soft as he bookmarks his page and sets it aside. “Baby,” he says while pulling the fifteen-year-old boy onto his lap, “What happened? Another headache?”

Peter nodded through an avalanche of tears. He curls on top of his papa’s lap, resting his head against Steve’s chest, right over the man’s heart. 

Steve presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head, wishing he could do something more to alleviate his son from pain. It’s a simple wish of any parent, and to have to wish that is a blow to the father in his heart. He’d rather get shot, face through all the torture he’s had, and hadn’t experienced a dozen times over if it meant that Peter would be okay. But Peter’s not okay right now, but to the veteran, it’s okay. 

He wears a reassuring smile as he tucks Peter’s weary head under his and hums softly, getting Peter to focus on something else than his pounding head. He speaks softly as to not hurt his child any more than he already is, “How bad muffin?” He rolls out one of Peter’s more favorite nicknames as he senses Peter’s headache to be a lot worse than the others he had in a long time. 

Peter’s answer confirms his papa’s theory as he replies lowly, too strained from the pounding of his skill, “Ten.” Ten is the highest number on the scale that the son came up with his dads, who needed to know how much pain Peter was in so they could best handle it.