⛓ • we'll never have sex ;; peter ballard ;; ❤︎

three

You're sitting at your desk, your face in your hands as you sigh. It's been a couple days since Peter's odd line of questioning, and you've been contemplating your sanity and choices as the hours tick by.

The sound of the hands of the clock moving rushes through your head and throws you off, it's repetitive and grounds you every single time your mind begins to drift off to the world Peter may have been asking you about.

You really don't know how to feel about it, so you instead grumble to yourself about lunch and reposition your body so you can continue your work. Your legs are crossed, your foot rapidly moving back and forth in the air as you write report after report about the children.

You're exhausted, and you're not even quite sure why. There's a dull aching behind your ribs, and you figure thats just a feeling of emptiness. You think about your life before this foundation, before you were snatched from a stable career and mindset.

It makes you hold your head in your hands, your nails ruining your hair as you come undone. Your head swimming and your throat tightening as a knot forms in the back of it. Tears threaten to spill and you're not even sure why, you search your mind for the reason of your heartache and it all spins back to the same source.

Peter. And how he has been acting odd recently. He's been talking with Eleven a lot more often than he should, and if Brenner's constant stares directed towards Peter don't show his growing suspicion, then his constant showing up in your office to ask questions about Peter most certainly does.

The first time he did it you tried to reason with him that you hadn't even been talking to Peter— which was followed by a blank stare that said all you needed to know, so you caved. You told him you didn't know what Peter was doing with Eleven, and decided to leave out that Peter had practically interrogated you the other day.

Brenner had taken that answer well, but then returned the next day with more rushed and forceful questions that left your head spinning. You couldn't catch a break and so you drowned yourself in your work, pretending as if you were just trying to work diligently to make him— Brenner, that is— proud.

It was nothing like that, to be frank you just needed something to take your mind off the odd and odder occurrences that had been circling you lately. Threatening to knock you off your feet if you weren't paying attention. God, you were sleepy and tired of everyone having questions for you.

The last thing you see is your pen tapping away against the page limply before you slump into your desk.

You're in the kitchen of a lovely house, you don't recognize anything but you know where you are and you feel safe. So safe that your hands are busy whisking together what looks to be cake batter as idle chatter happens behind you.

It sounds like two children bickering and for reasons unknown to you, you spin around with your hand raised, a finger accusingly pointing at both of them. You recognize them to be your children, even though in the back of your head you're telling yourself you've never once been pregnant. "Both of you stop your ridiculous fighting! Daddy is going to be home soon and if I have to tell him that you're both being immature he won't be happy!"

And almost as if bringing him up beckoned him home, the door opens and a man enters. His golden hair is slicked back, and on one of his arms is a suit jacket. A suitcase rests in his hand as he closes the door behind him. The crisp white button up wrinkles slightly as the man turns to you completely.

"Hello darling, I was just telling our little troublemakers to stop their bickering." Cheek bones dusted pink become more defined as he smiles, pearly white teeth coming into view as he walks towards you. Beautiful and enchanting blue eyes steal your breath away, and when he leans down and kisses you, your heart skips a beat.

It's Peter.

And this is the life he asked you about, and it's almost as if your mind is showing you what he is willing to promise to you.

Music fills the large kitchen from a small outdated radio. Dream a little dream of me plays softly, quiet but in moments of calm it's as easy to hear as people shouting. Peter's hands encompass your waist, and when you look up at him his face is only reflecting love.

"Hello, love."

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead and then lips, lingering there and when his tongue flicks out to taste you— your knees nearly give out. But you and Peter seem to get the same idea, little ears are listening and little eyes are watching. He pulls away from you and walks towards your children, who both sit at the table, now quiet but both smiling widely. Peter presses a kiss to each of their foreheads before he stalks up the nearby staircase.

When the oven dings, you rush to put on oven miffs and proceed to take out what looks to be baked ziti. You place it on the table, and have to shoo away your daughter and sons hand. The second you turn around you hear them digging in, but you ignore it with a shake of your head dismissively and a fond smile. Instead, you put the vanilla cake batter into the pan.

You finally put the cake to-be in the oven, setting the heat to 350 degrees and choosing to forget about it for now. When you spin around again, there is something out of place in the quiet dainty life you thought this was.

Rot covers the table cloth, and as you look around all the colors of the house are no longer as bright as they were you conclude in terror. Your "children" are rotting corpses, and as one of them turns to you nearly scream. The music playing over the radio becomes distorted and slowed to a horrific degree.

It's Eleven, and her flesh is mangled. Bones broken at every joint, and her jaw hangs open loosely. It takes for her to only try and speak for you to practically leap towards the front door.

"Why did you trust him, Mama?"

Your eyes fly open, your heart beating out of your chest as you sit up. Peter stands in front of you with a plate of some type of food and an untouched drink in his hand. When your eyes try to flicker to his face he slams the food down and turns away from you. Going to your box of napkins that sit idly by the door hurriedly and blowing his nose.

When he spins around he looks normal, not a hair out of place— but the grip he has on the napkin surely proves wrong. But your head is spinning and you choke down a sob.

"What's wrong? Bad dream?"

When your eyes find his, the comfort you normally seek in him is void. As one sentence bounces around your head, tears begin to slip from your eyes. Weighing down your heart, as you lean back into your chair and breathe heavily through your nose.

Why did you trust him, Mama?