pullmeoutalive | Ramey

My question still stands. I’m not trying to kill you or screw you over, that’s usually enough for most people.

[ He really doesn’t like people trying to get personal. Just who he is and what he’s about isn’t really relevant to his job- people know he gets things done, and he’s able to rest on his reputation just fine.

Still, in the spirit of cooperating to get this job over and done with, he offers her the key when she asks. ]

For most, maybe. [But not for Emily Kaldwin, comes the implication.

Her fingers curl around the brass key as he hands it to her, and she feels its texture and weight. It's simple and unadorned, yet heavy, like it belongs to a large door or contraption of some sort.

Then she looks at him for a moment, sharp eyes considering. It's with a vaguest of hesitations that she concedes to his previous question. For the sake of the argument itself, perhaps.]

I train at night, dashing across rooftops, so no one can see me. It isn't exactly a pasttime that most expect from an Empress. [What manner of heart attacks would happen if the Court itself found out? Void only knows.] I want to be able to defend myself and help others if I can, outside of being completely bound to politics and certain social expectations. I don't ever want to feel useless, and being as well-rounded as possible helps me avoid that.

[ Well… damn. He hadn’t been expecting her to actually up and answer him, and so honestly too. That’s deeper than he wants to go with anyone, let alone someone he’s known for barely an hour or so.

Needless to say, his own response comes off as shallow, which is just how he likes it. ]

Two things.

One, I still don’t believe you’re the empress of anything.

Two, the pay is nice, but in the end it comes down to who I get to screw over.

[Emily had answered honestly. Even if he cannot manage to do the same (his own shallow retort is barely surprising to her), at least Alec cannot throw it back in her face. She was truthful, and perhaps it was foolish of her to be so open with a man who was hesitant to do the same.

Regardless, anything she can sketch of his character, she'll take for now. Even if the details are often small and lacking thus far.]

I've told you the truth. If you don't believe me, that's your own problem. [She's not going to stand here and convince him otherwise.] And why is this doctor someone worth "screwing over"? What exactly did he do?

He’s got more money than sense. [ Or morals. ] I don’t need much more than that.

[ He shrugs. That’s not the half of it by far, but in the end, he really could not care less about her opinion of him. ]

So, you got an idea about that key or what?

[She scoffs.]

You've just described maybe half of the wealthy population; that doesn't mean all of them deserve to have their homes broken into.

[She tosses the key at him. It arcs in the air slightly.]

It belongs to something big. Not another little drawer or even a strongbox. More like an entrance to sizable compartment, or a cleverly hidden door to another room. I'd keep an eye out for furniture that looks out of place, or maybe an odd break in the dust of the bookshelves here. Whatever he's hiding, it must be quite the secret.

[ He bites back the urge to retort I bet they do, but it’s a close thing. Shit like this is why Alec works alone, why he only keeps company with people just as angry and amoral and broken as he is. He does not need this holier-than-thou crap ever, and he’s going to come very close to stepping over a line if Emily persists.

Thankfully she doesn’t, at least for the moment, and he snatches the key. ]

Are you saying our doctor friend has a secret lair somewhere?

[ He waggles his fingers at her. ] Spooky.

[Emily had been raised to be moral and upstanding to the best of her ability. No, she had chosen to be; a stern guiding hand for her people, to help when she could, to keep a perfectly tenuous balance between mercy and justice. On the outside, she performs this well, carrying herself with the dignity expected of royalty.

Only to her closest does she allow her frustration to peak through the cracks, to allow herself to feel the weight of her responsibilities. There are times when she feels nothing short of stifled, and then it's like she's eleven all over again; wanting to learn about pirates and sword fighting and fantastic adventures, not boring tenements such as rules and philosophies and histories and-

Naturally, Alec will not be privy to any of that. She will be the stern Empress if she has to, reflecting his sarcasm away with a royal deftness, even as her own writhes just under the surface.]

"Lair" might be an overstatement. It could be nothing bigger than a broom closet.

You managed to raise my hopes and expertly dash them in one fell swoop. Congratulations.

[ But they have a clue, or at least something solid to look for rather than shuffling aimlessly through papers. (A lot of Alec’s jobs involve shuffling through papers. It’s kind of nice to have something a little different now and then.)

He pockets the key and moves to the wall nearest the desk, running his hands along the wall to look for seams. Now and then he’ll pause and quietly rap a knuckle over one section of wall, then the next, to look for hollow places. ]

You were giving that bookshelf a look earlier. Maybe check that out.

Gotcha!

[And so now we have a thief, a childish psychic, and a floating sleeping man which she proceeds to move outside in the back after opening the back door. There's a tool shed that's open and she gently places him on the floor after moving other objects out of the way.]

It's what I do. [She can't help but retort dryly, even as she makes her way back to the large bookshelves.

There are far too many books to check each individual one without spending far too long, so Emily opts for what she hopes is the shorter solution first. She examines the sides of the shelves, looking for conspicuous places where it might look like things have shifted in the past. She doesn't see anything at first, but there's something strange about the way the light glints off of a certain part of the flooring-

Emily bends down to get a closer look. It looks like scratch marks, as if something had been swung out in an arc, like a large door. She looks up at the bookcase in question, furrowing her brow.]

Unless someone's been moving furniture around, these scratches in the floor don't make much sense.

Really?

[ Alec ceases his inspection of the wall, and comes over to inspect the scratches on the floor. He lets out a little “tsk tsk” noise. ] Looks like somebody doesn’t pay his housekeepers well enough.

[ His eyes drift up to the bookcase in question, roving over the books for an inconsistency. Anything that stands out. There is a book in particular that catches his eye- not only is it on the end of the bookcase that appears to swing outward, but it’s relatively clean and free of dust. Larger than the others as well. It would probably be difficult to spot if he hadn't been actively looking for it.

He reaches up and gives it a tap with one knuckle, and is rewarded with a hollow sound, instead of the dull clunk of leather and pages. He futzes around with the book for a second, pushing and pulling, and the spine slides away, lifting on a small track to reveal a keyhole. ]

Looks like we have a winner.

[ Well, that was a terrible fucking day.

By the time he stumbled his way back to the ship, his scarf was wound around his neck twice, and he was working a heavy buzz, the tips of his fingers tingling, the world swaying mutinously, and his mood was no better than before. (Because he had hooked up with a girl at the bar when he was only half-drunk, the two of them making their way into a shadowy corner of the club. It was going well up, until the girl had tugged at his scarf before he could protest, and she spotted the ring wrapping around his throat.

"You didn't say you were taken," she said, practically leaping off in her outrage.

"I'm not. Seriously, I swear, I'm not. I—"

But the damage was done, and she had stomped away.)

Alec stopped him at the bay door, told him he had the spell ready, and Peter led the two of them through the narrow passageway to his quarters, slamming the door shut behind them. He collapsed onto his bunk, yanking off the scarf and watching Alec warily, like at any point he might pull a gun on him. And then he waited fidgeting with impatience and annoyance as Alec worked his way through the spell, referring to his notes. Peter felt— weirdly exposed. Vulnerable in a way he fucking hated, with his head tipped to one side to expose his throat. He grimaced at the flash of purple hovering in the air, tasted something bitter and sour at the back of his tongue. Resentment. Disgust. Shame.

Maybe a bit of actual vomit, but he kept it down.

The spell faded from the air, and Alec informed him it wa finished. Peter's hand immediately went to his neck, and he stumbled his way to his mirror, tilting his chin this way and that to verify. His skin was clean, unmarred by that fucking band, and Peter sagged against the wall in relief.

Then, without turning, he pointed at the door and told Alec to get the fuck out.

Things are tense after that, with the two of them taking pains to avoid the other, ricocheting off each other like a bullet pinging off a wall. Speaking to each other across rooms and passageways only when strictly necessary. The marks are no longer there to damn them, but Peter still feels that noose tightening around his neck, all the same. The more time they spend together, the stronger the connection – whatever form that takes – will get, until the two of them become well and truly bound. Well and truly fucked. The idea of it makes Peter's stomach churn, because neither of them fucking want this, that much is certain, but as time crawls on...

(He remembers Mom on quiet nights, her shaking fingers crawling across the lavender band on her wrist like spiders. He remembers the way she cried, moving restlessly like she couldn't get comfortable, how it made her physically sick.

Always the same answer when he asked what was wrong: I just miss him, baby. That's all.

It wasn't until he was older that he understood what withdrawal was. Matches who spent too long separated went through odd symptoms. Like their skins were two sizes too small. Like there was a gaping, empty pit inside them. Like they were stuck in the dark. Some mates could ignore it, but Mom felt it all, and it left her drained.

Peter's pretty sure it killed her, in the end.)

...he feels that rope settle around his throat, and he's terrified.

Fast forward to a week or so later, once they've parsed through the data swiped from Kove's terminal. Velmin Mansoon is their strongest link to getting at Grun; the latter might be the kingpin of the operation, but the former is the linchpin holding the whole operation together, keeping things moving. Take her out, the Guardians determine, and everything will crumble. Except she's careful, ruthless, and a difficult woman to pin down at the best of times. They puzzle over it after a while, but Alec points out the charity function she holds once a year, around pledge season.

And, as luck would have it, the night of the party is drawing close.

So they secure an invitation for two – the main party and their plus one. In the past, he and Gamora made a good team at these functions. She balanced out his carelessness, and he tempered her deep, unyielding desire to not be there. Except as they gather around the table to figure out their plan of attack (Peter at the view screen and Alec nestled somewhere far, far away), he turns to Gamora who gives a sharp shake of her head.

"Brennan should go with you instead," she says. "His skill set is better suited for this venture."

Peter feels the color drain from his face, and protests immediately falls from his lips, so fast and so fierce he hardly knows what he's saying. He thinks Alec must have joined in, too, because Gamora rises to her feet, snaps at Peter to shut up – and the fierceness of it is enough to make him fall silent.

"I am a warrior, Quill. An assassin. I do not enjoy wearing fine gowns and sipping aged wines." She waves sharply to the wizard. "He will go with you, and that's final."

Peter drags his eyes to Alec's, feels the world tilt, and wishes with every fiber in his being for the bay doors to malfunction and space them all.

No such luck.

Peter's never been so lucky, after all. Not when it counted.

Fast forward again to the night of the party, and Peter waits impatiently in the common area of the Milano in his black three piece suit. As he leans back against the table, compulsively, unconsciously, he touches his throat where the band sits against his skin. Even though he knows it's invisible, he still worries all the same. His collar is buttoned high, feels like it's choking him, and he lets out a noise of frustration. He runs his finger along the inside of his collar, trying to make some space, but he knows it's all in his head.

Doesn't stop him from feeling like he can't breathe, though.

The sooner this night is over, the sooner they get to ending this fucking job, the goddamn better. ]

[ Alec keeps to himself, which isn't all that unusual considering he had been doing that before, but now he makes an extra effort to stay away from everyone on the ship. He's not just avoiding Peter, though he's especially avoiding Peter, but Alec is always thinking about how people perceive things. Avoiding them all is less likely to draw questions about why he's avoiding one of them specifically.

He has stopped reporting to Peter, mostly seeking out Gamora, sometimes the others if he has to. What few conversations he holds with his fellow Terran are from a distance and brief.

Hidden though it is, the red mark on his arm is always on his mind. Plaguing his every thought, gnawing uncomfortably at the back of his mind. The small space of the ship is suffocating, and every time he and Quill are forced to be within five feet of each other feels like the bars of a cage are ever closer to slamming down around them. (Years ago, before he left Earth, he remembers hearing the phrase "red ring of death" tossed around in relation to a game console. It seems scarily accurate to his current situation.) More than once, the urge strikes him to just run. To turn tail and get as far away as he can, to put Peter Quill and that damnable ring of color around his throat as far behind him as possible. It's tempting, and his bag sits packed and ready to go even now. Each time he talks himself out of it, if only because he knows what this job means to his career. There's too much riding on this, and if they continue to be careful, there shouldn't be a problem.

But then, of course, there is a problem. A problem in the form of a party, their one shot to start unraveling Vhenarl Grun's whole empire and getting away from Peter goddamn Quill for good.

Gamora makes a good point, and under normal circumstances, Alec would be on board, but not this time. Not with his freedom, his individuality, his very way of life, at stake. He straightens in his seat to offer protest- some bullshit about being more suited to behind the scenes work, but Gamora is quick to put both he and Peter in their places. (He even tries to appeal to her after the fact, feeding her a line about how she knows how Peter works much better than he does, and she's much more suited for this job, but she's not having it.)

He arrives in the common area of the ship similarly dressed and similarly anxious. The latter, he keeps behind his usual carefully constructed air of flippancy and ego. He already hides so much, what's one more layer? ]

Ride's waiting, Star-Guy. Let's get going.

[ Peter's body turns rigid at Alec's approach, and he doesn't bother to turn when he hears his voice. Takes deep breath after deep breath instead (or at least, as deep as his growing anxiety might allow), before pushing off from the table.

It says quite a lot, too, that he doesn't bristle when Alec uses the wrong call sign – he's already practically puffed up like a porcupine; nowhere else to go from there – but he says a lot more that he doesn't correct him. Hell must have frozen over tonight.

He moves away from the table, slams the control for the bay door with the meat of his fist. The doors part, and sure enough, their ride – a sleek black aircar – idles in front of them.

Without turning, he growls, ]

Let's just get this fucking over with.

[ Alec rolls his eyes, but doesn't offer any kind of protest as he follows Peter. He slips into the car, staying as far away from Peter as the space will allow him. ]

Look, once we get in, we can split up. You do your thing, I'll do mine.

[ Peter leans against the door on the opposite side, staring out the window as the world passes. For a long moment, he stays silent after Alec speaks, as though he hasn't heard him – or at least, that he's not inclined to answer.

Then, begrudgingly, ]

What are you planning on doing.

[ It's a question, but he asks it flatly, with little intonation and again, without looking Alec's way. A kid throwing a tantrum. ]

[ Normally Alec might take issue with Peter's attitude, but right now he just... does not care. The more distant they are, the better. ]

Gonna work my way back into the estate. See what I can dig up there.

[ Another lengthy pause. ]

If you get your dumbass caught...

[ He trails off, half warning, half threat. The former, because he doesn't want Alec to blow their cover and ruin this for them. The latter, because he doesn't plan on bailing him out. ]

[ Blandly, as he stares out the window, ]

I don't get caught, Quill.

[ He glances over for half a second – eyes darting over and darting away just as quickly. He could say a few things right now, about a certain jail in which the Guardians found him and subsequently sprung him. It'd be the easy jab.

But mostly Peter thinks about the walls closing in around them, bit by damning bit. The rope cinching around his neck to steal away his breath.

His hand goes to the invisible band at his throat, fingers ghosting along it unconsciously. He turns toward the window again, scowling out at the night.

There's a touch of bitterness in his words when he replies, ]

Counting on that, Brennan.

[ That seems to be the end of that. The rest of the ride passes in heavy silence. Alec fiddles with his sleeve more than once, wary and anxious, like the mark there might burn a hole through the fabric at any moment and set the whole car ablaze.

They make it to the venue without spontaneously bursting into flames, though whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. Alec slips out of the car, waiting for Peter to exit. This is the most difficult part of the night, he knows, because they'll have to enter together. ]

Just so you know, I'm not expecting you to hold my hand or anything.

[ He slams the car door shut behind him with far more force than necessary. Doesn't even bother to look apologetic about it as other nearby guests glance over at him with disapproving frowns. But he's being stupid about this, he knows. He needs to calm the fuck down, or he might be the one to blow this for them.

Deep breath, Quill. It's just one night. How much damage could it do?

His hand still rests against his collar, just above the knot of his tie, and while he still doesn't look over at Alec, he at least looks calmer. More focused. Less like that helpless, unrestrained rage might lash out and immolate whatever poor soul happens to draw close. When he speaks, his voice is more subdued, a touch more refined. ]

Good to know. Would've hated to disappoint you when I didn't.

[ He adjusts his cuff links, straightens his jacket, keeps his gaze focused on the entrance of the estate, abuzz with activity. He nods toward it. ]

Shall we?

[ Alec is half a breath away from telling Quill to calm the fuck down himself, but he seems to manage it on his own.

In spite of the circumstances, Alec is surprised at Quill's subtle shift in demeanor. He's reminded of that moment in the alley, before everything went to hell and their worlds were turned upside down. Quill's good at what he does, Alec will give him that.

He adjusts his tie and motions Peter forward. ]

Usually, it's age before beauty, but I'll let beauty go first, just this once.

[ He rolls his eyes at that – it's a cheesy sort of line, but it's in line with their covers. Gamora's bright idea, a-fucking-gain, that they should be affianced. More plausible that way that they should bring the other as their plus one.

(Didn't stop Peter from arguing, though.

"Call it an arranged marriage, then," Gamora had snapped at Peter. "If we don't move on, I will break every bone in your body."

He settled into a moody silence after that.)

Even if he bristles at the familiarity of it, the candid flirtation of it, he swallows it down like bitter medicine and trudges forward.

Slipping through the check-in is easy enough. Peter shows their invitation to the woman at the door, and she smiles brightly as she waves them inside. The party is already in full swing, now that they've arrived, though the two of them are not the only guests to arrive fashionably late. Beings of all colors, shapes, sizes, mill around the first floor of the mansion; the main staircase in the foyer is cordoned off, a guard stationed at the first step to prevent anyone from slipping upstairs.

It's the grand hall that holds the bulk of the activity, and there that Peter leads them, following the other guests in. Appearances, mostly, than any desire to actually participate in the party. Nevertheless, he snatches a glass of dark wine from a passing servant, downs at least half of it in one go. ]

You got your comm patched in?

[ He asks it quietly, once they're more or less alone, eyes scanning over the assembled crowd. ]

Ramey > open rp

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that thing idfk anymore i'm sorry this is so long

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