She isn't afraid until she is. That's the way things always work, of course, not least when bravery is a tenuous, inconsistent thing. She wasn't afraid of that fucking clown when It took her, having faced so much worse than whatever It intended to do, which ultimately wasn't very much at all. She wasn't all that afraid of Bowers and his gang, either, despite all the reasons she would have had to be. Inside the walls of her apartment, though, that courageous veneer always crumpled, having long since been gradually worn away, leaving so little left. It feels sort of like that now, watching the battle, like a switch flips in her head, taking her from confident and brave and so angry to something entirely the opposite.
In her defense, Jamie losing a fucking hand seems like a good reason to be afraid.
She wants to yell and scream and fight back like she did before, still remembering the satisfying crack when her rock hit Peter's head. She wants to hurt him for hurting her friend, to let him know what happens when he fucks with the Losers Club, to tell him that what he's describing isn't love at all. It's something sick and toxic, born of a need to control, not any sort of affection. She knows that twisted sort of love, and knows that anyone is better off without it. Her father didn't want her to grow up, either.
None of those things happen. For a moment that feels like an eternity, she's frozen, aware of what she should do and wants to do but completely unable to do them. It's a fucking relief that someone else joins in the fight, because once Jamie's hand is gone, once she sees it, she almost forgets about Peter entirely. All she can see is the blood, so much of it; all she can feel is the impulse to vomit, which she has just enough self-control to suppress. That wouldn't help anything right now. Whatever is doing this to her — and she knows what it is, what she's remembering, memories she tries to keep buried filtering back through the cracks and flooding her mind with thoughts of the past — it's not as important as helping Jamie. She can deal with her own shit later.
"Jamie," she says as she runs to his side, the word coming out strangled and panicked. She can't breathe, she realizes, managing little more than shallow gasps and trying her best to ignore it, and all the blood. "You're gonna be okay, alright? We have to — to stop —" She slips her jacket off, trying with clumsy hands to tear off part of the fabric. "Come on, I'll help you."
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In her defense, Jamie losing a fucking hand seems like a good reason to be afraid.
She wants to yell and scream and fight back like she did before, still remembering the satisfying crack when her rock hit Peter's head. She wants to hurt him for hurting her friend, to let him know what happens when he fucks with the Losers Club, to tell him that what he's describing isn't love at all. It's something sick and toxic, born of a need to control, not any sort of affection. She knows that twisted sort of love, and knows that anyone is better off without it. Her father didn't want her to grow up, either.
None of those things happen. For a moment that feels like an eternity, she's frozen, aware of what she should do and wants to do but completely unable to do them. It's a fucking relief that someone else joins in the fight, because once Jamie's hand is gone, once she sees it, she almost forgets about Peter entirely. All she can see is the blood, so much of it; all she can feel is the impulse to vomit, which she has just enough self-control to suppress. That wouldn't help anything right now. Whatever is doing this to her — and she knows what it is, what she's remembering, memories she tries to keep buried filtering back through the cracks and flooding her mind with thoughts of the past — it's not as important as helping Jamie. She can deal with her own shit later.
"Jamie," she says as she runs to his side, the word coming out strangled and panicked. She can't breathe, she realizes, managing little more than shallow gasps and trying her best to ignore it, and all the blood. "You're gonna be okay, alright? We have to — to stop —" She slips her jacket off, trying with clumsy hands to tear off part of the fabric. "Come on, I'll help you."