darker_london | The Storm (Deirdre, Peter) Rating: R

It was well past midnight now and the room was stiflingly hot. Peter had taken off his long sleeved shirt, leaving only his undershirt but he was still far too warm. He knew it wasn't this hot outside. It had to be Deirdre doing it. He wasn't sure, however, if it was something she was doing deliberately or if it was a side effect of the withdrawl she was going through.

Deirdre was on the bed, making terrible pained noises and writhing around, her hands on her head. Peter licked his dry lips as he watched her, wishing he could do something, but there was nothing for it. He heaved a sigh and leaned back. It was like a sauna in the room, and it made breathing difficult. It felt like he was taking each breath through a wet towel. It made him want to scream and throw open the door, taking in deep breaths of cool fresh air, but he couldn't. The door was locked and the windows wouldn't budge.

Peter groaned and slumped in his seat, his head swimming. The heat and the lack of sleep and food was getting to him. Mustn't fall asleep. Musn't fall asleep. His eyelids began to droop so he stood up quickly and walked to the kitchen. He got himself a drink of water and then he poured another one over his head hoping it would wake him up and cool him off, though it did neither. He went back and leaned against the wall crossing his arms, knowing if he sat back down, he'd fall asleep.

Another hour went by, with no change in Deirdre. The temperature continued to rise and rise, and Peter worried vaugely if he'd be cooked. His head felt fuzzy and he could barely keep his eyes open. Finally, unable to stay standing, he slid to the floor with his back against the wall. He tried to swallow, but it stuck in his dry throat and he coughed. The noise made Deirdre fall silent. Peter's eyes rose to look at the bed.

Deirdre felt like something was crawling in her brain. The pain and the need was driving her insane and the sound of the cough cut through her head like a gunshot. She sat up and stared at Peter, her hands still directly over her temples.

"Deirdre?" He said softly. "Deirdre are you okay?"

"Why do you care, Priest?" She said, lowering her hands.

Priest. Deirdre had never called him that before. She was losing her personal connection with him. That wasn't good. Peter sat up a little straighter. "Because I care about you, Deirdre."

"Like fuck you do. You are keeping me here like a prisoner!"

"I'm in here too, Deirdre. You're not alone."

"I AM ALONE! YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT ME ALONE! Oh god...PETER! It hurts. It hurts everywhere!"

"I'm sorry, Deirdre." And he was. He felt terrible that she had to go through pain in order to get over this. But it was better than the pain she'd feel later if she let it continue.

Deirdre slowly rose from the bed and stood next to it, her eyes as black as they'd been since she'd gotten here. "I am going to make you hurt everywhere too. What you do to me, I do to you, right? Fair is fair." She smiled cruelly and Peter held his breath. In a flash she'd run to the kitchen and grabbed the knife.

"Fuck." Peter said. How could he have been so stupid as to LEAVE it there. He scrambled up, using the wall to help him.

"That's right. See how YOU LIKE IT! See how you like it cutting into your head like hot pokers!" She walked towards him, her hand shooting out and throwing his stereo to the floor with a loud crash.

Peter backed up and tripped over the chair. He fell to the ground but stood up again until he was backed into the wall beside the door. Fuck. FUCK he was locked in. How could he have been so bloody stupid? He should have known this was lost when he arrived. If he weren't so FUCKING proud this wouldn't he happening right now. "Deirdre...stop.."

"Are you going to beg?" Peter's mouth fell open as she quoted the dream. Here he was in the exact situation. Except now she had a knife. She advanced on him and then doubled over in pain. Peter tried to use the oppurtunity to run into the bathroom. He could lock that door and buy himself some time, but he never reached it. Deirdre grabbed him and threw him to the ground. She knelt down over him. "I am going to make you feel what I FEEL!" She straddled him, pinning him to the floor, and she ran the blunt edge of the knife up his side. He had to force himself not to struggle. She ripped the bandage off his wounded arm and dug the knife into it, cutting deep. Peter bit his lip so he wouldn't cry out. "This will teach you to FUCK WITH ME!" She cut him again and again. Peter grimaced and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his arm, shaking with the effort of it. Oh god, oh god. Don't cry out. Don't cry out. "LOOK AT ME!" Deirdre screamed at him. His eyes flew open and she smiled, triumphantly.

Deirdre lowered the knife and got up, curling her fingers in his shirt and lifting him towards her until her face was centimeters from his own and oh how it burned. It was like the heat was radiating off of her. Don't break eye contact. Don't look away. Peter's eyes began to water as they held the stare. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and he blinked. In a flash, she held the knife to his throat. Peter's eyes widened in fear. "YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO STICK YOUR FUCKING NOSE IN IT, DON'T YOU!? YOU ALWAYS WANT TO HELP! I know you wanted to help Thomas. Here. I'll fucking SEND YOU TO HIM!" Peter felt the knife press into his skin. He looked up at her, and he moved his hands which were gripping at her arms to her shoulders quickly. He pulled himself up closer to her, the knife biting into him slightly.

"If you're going to do it Deirdre, fucking DO IT!" He felt the pressure of the knife relax but only slightly. "Are you going to kill me, Deirdre?" No response. "DEIRDRE! Listen to me! Are you going to kill ME?! Peter!?" Deirdre dropped him and his head cracked against the floor. She threw the knife against the opposite wall and it clattered to the floor. Peter sighed in relief and rolled over, clutching at his throat.

"FUCK YOU!" Deirdre gave him a kick right in the ribs and he curled in on himself.

Then there was a loud sob and then silence. The temperature of the room dropped 20 degrees, mercifully. Peter lay on the floor for some time, afraid to move or make a sound. Afterall, this had all started with a cough. Finally he stuck his head up and looked around. He didn't see Deirdre anywhere. He stood slowly, one hand on his injured ribs, his wounded arm dangling by his side, dripping blood. He walked weakly towards the kitchen, and there, against the far wall was Deirdre. She was cowering in a corner, and her wings had manifested, forming a protective barrier around her. Peter approached her slowly. One wing shot out, pushing him backwards and knocking him over. He crawled over to the wall and leaned against it. He looked up to one of the windows. It was starting to lighten outside. Peter choked up and he put his face in his hands, but he didn't let himself cry.