[Peter yanks his pants on urgently before sitting on the edge of the bed and scrubbing his hands through his hair until his face settles in them. Well, never has he wanted to get hit by a train and carted away to Jersey so bad in his life, thanks. And no, Wade, he really doesn't feel remotely set at ease.]

Stop, Wade, just... stop talking.

[He sits with his face in his hands for another dread-inducing moment, before moving to collect his button up and undershirt. Another sneeze rocks him, and bloody sand marks his palm before he wipes it off on his pants. Something's seriously off. He knows it, knows his brain has been wired wrong for the last week.

Maybe he's been a little scared straight by the whole dream confusion issue.

Not that he's too sure what it is, exactly.]

This is my fault. I'm sorry I did this to you, I'm... I'd never have done something this fucked-up on purpose. I should go. [He drags on his shirt as he goes, feeling like he's effectively ruined any odds he had at actually being honest and — wow, is this how Wade felt after the pollen incident? Cool. Coolcoolcool. He looks back at Wade, looking probably more wounded than he figures he has any right to be.] I need to just go. I'll — I'll see you. Sorry.

[Oh hey, he's pacing out the room to leave the house.

Which is just another reason to be mad at himself, but he's really just the worst, so.]