[ Peter offers a quiet protest ("Wait, hang on–") as Hannah pulls him away, but a selfish, cowardly part of him screams, Shut up. Get out of there, and he falls silent again. He casts a quick look over his shoulder at the men at the bar, catches the gaze of McKenna, who flashes him a feral smile before turning to his drink. Peter quickly turns back around after that, following after Hannah. Dazed as he is, he doesn't realize where he's being led until they stop at the red door of his apartment, adorned with its little "001" plaque. He offers another token protest as Hannah takes her leave, but she disappears down the stairs.
The thirty minutes he waits for Madigan to arrive should have been spent calming down, trying to gain back some semblance of composure. Instead, with adrenaline still buzzing in his system, with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he spends that time pacing the room, freaking the hell out, trying to think about what the hell he needs to do to fix this. At some point in that half hour, a duffel bag makes its way onto his bed – because he's absolutely certain Madigan is going to tell him to leave. And it only makes sense, because the old team could be dangerous, could spell trouble for Madigan and the girls, and even with all the wards and protections in place in the club, Peter being here is still a fucking liability. Those protections don't extend beyond the walls, after all, and the old team could be petty as hell.
It's been a while since Peter's felt this vulnerable or this much like a burden – probably not since he first arrived in Maxwell's bookstore, or stepped through the portal into Madigan's club. He should have never gotten comfortable. He should have known this shit would eventually catch up to him. He needs to get out before this problem gets even bigger.
His pacing stops long enough for him to stare at the black bag on the bed, and something constricts around his chest. He needs to leave – he's sure of that – but, Jesus, he doesn't want to.
By the the time Madigan arrives, the bag remains empty, and Peter sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. The quiet knock snaps him out of his daze, and he scrubs his face roughly and takes a deep breath before opening the door.
no subject
The thirty minutes he waits for Madigan to arrive should have been spent calming down, trying to gain back some semblance of composure. Instead, with adrenaline still buzzing in his system, with his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he spends that time pacing the room, freaking the hell out, trying to think about what the hell he needs to do to fix this. At some point in that half hour, a duffel bag makes its way onto his bed – because he's absolutely certain Madigan is going to tell him to leave. And it only makes sense, because the old team could be dangerous, could spell trouble for Madigan and the girls, and even with all the wards and protections in place in the club, Peter being here is still a fucking liability. Those protections don't extend beyond the walls, after all, and the old team could be petty as hell.
It's been a while since Peter's felt this vulnerable or this much like a burden – probably not since he first arrived in Maxwell's bookstore, or stepped through the portal into Madigan's club. He should have never gotten comfortable. He should have known this shit would eventually catch up to him. He needs to get out before this problem gets even bigger.
His pacing stops long enough for him to stare at the black bag on the bed, and something constricts around his chest. He needs to leave – he's sure of that – but, Jesus, he doesn't want to.
By the the time Madigan arrives, the bag remains empty, and Peter sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. The quiet knock snaps him out of his daze, and he scrubs his face roughly and takes a deep breath before opening the door.
The first thing out of his mouth: ] I'm sorry.