pullmeoutalive | Ramey

I have a lot of problems, Quill. A lacking sense of adventure isn't one of them.

[ A weighty, contemplative pause. ]

I guess you're right.

You do have a lot of problems.

[ He snorts, as if to say "you don't know the half of it".

He falls into silence for a bit, and for probably the hundredth time, he thinks he really should go. This time he listens, albeit reluctantly. Bed is sounding awful nice right now, and this little chair he's in just won't cut it. ]

Well, I think I'll leave you do your convalescing. Try not to let your tea get cold.

[ He lifts the mug of said tea, as if in toast. ]

Thanks.

[ Then, brightly, ] Hope you're less of an asshole in the morning.

["Em"? No one calls her Em. Not even Corvo or Wyman calls her that; she's caught between being put-off and surprised, and settles somewhere in-between with her correction.] It's Emily.

[The frustrating thing is definitely in full swing.]

What kind of magic is it? Who taught you?

[ He pauses to consider that a moment, then shrugs. ]

Nah, I don’t think so.

[ He gives a little wave of farewell as he exits the room, and through he doesn’t feel quite as hazy and pleasantly warm as he had a few moments earlier, the feeling is still there, lazily drifting just under the surface.

Sleep doesn’t claim him immediately, but he’s still too tired to really focus, to really think about the events of the night with any kind of scrutiny, so he sits up for a while with a tablet, idly scrolling through news feeds for anything interesting. He doesn’t find much, and eventually that quietly content feeling drags him under. ]

[ That was about the reaction he was expecting from his little nickname, so Emily does not disappoint. ]

Okay, Emily. Can we have this conversation somewhere other than the roof of the guy we just robbed?

[She doesn't quite huff, though it may be apparent she's holding one back.]

...Fine.

[ He just assumes she’ll follow him when he goes, so he doesn’t say anything. He turns and bounds away, leaping from rooftop to rooftop in a seemingly random direction. To his credit, he doesn’t make any attempt to lose her, and keeps a steady pace. Once he seems satisfied with the distance, he picks a rooftop with high chimneys for cover and stops there, waiting for her. ]

Let’s take this one question at a time. What do you wanna know first?

[She follows easily enough, eyes squarely planted on his back as Alec leads her to a more remote rooftop. It's not so much that he looks like he's going to turn tail and run, but rather that she's feeling particularly motivated to get answers.

She steps forward, now that he finally seems willing to entertain this conversation.]

Tell me about your magic, specifically what it is you can do.

A little bit of everything. Well, not everything, but a pretty decent amount.

[ He leans against one of the chimneys, ticking off items on his fingers. ] I can camouflage myself, enhance my strength and speed, pick locks, throw lightning, etcetera, etcetera.

[How casually this man talks about something as potent as magic. She doesn't know if she should be impressed or annoyed, though her features skew to the latter.]

And enhancing your speed and strength was how you managed to not break your legs after throwing yourself off the roof before, isn't it?

[I knew it, lies implied between her words.]

Got it in one. [ He usually leaves the matter of his Enhancements off the table when discussing his skills, but she’s already seen them in action, and he’d rather avoid even more prying questions. ]

But we both see how well that ended for me.

[wow rude] I'd say it ended very well for you, considering you found the evidence you were originally looking for.

[So there.]

Are you self-taught?

Could have done without the detour is what I’m saying.

[ Don’t so there him!! ]

A little yes and a little no. The thing about magic is that I don’t just wave my hand and things happen. It’s a language, and it takes a lot of studying.

[ To demonstrate his point, he lifts a hand and begins etching a mark into the air, index and middle fingers extended. Light flows from his fingertips, grayish purple in color, a little muted and not especially pretty. Usually he can crank out this spell in a couple of seconds, but he’s taking his time with it so she can see. Once the spell is complete, the air crackles with electricity, and a bolt of lightning lances from the mark, striking a weathervane across the roof and dissipating. ]

[ Alec disappears.

That is to say, he certainly has the ability to do so and utilized that particular spell whenever it was necessary – slipping past security or hiding in plain sight. It’s a thing, though Peter wasn’t aware of it until sometime after the start of their dubious partnership. From what Peter could tell, he always left something of a faint image, like heated air kicked up by too-hot black asphalt. He could tell where he was, if Peter paid enough attention. If he stared long and hard enough for any flickers of movement.

But, no. This time, Alec well and truly disappears.

And Peter knows exactly why, too. After the charity ball on Mansoon’s estate, with time and healing, the two of them came to the same conclusion: their connection was growing. Peter felt it – flashes of annoyance that weren’t his own. Of fear, of rage, of desperation. He mirrored those feelings, of course, but sometimes, he felt something that wasn’t him, something outside of himself. A second presence that he refused to let in. He learned could block it out, turn it away like some annoying door-to-door salesman, and he feels it when Alec does the same to him. They’re in agreement on that much, at least. They’re slamming the doors in each other faces, for which Peter can only feel relief.

(And a brief pang of loss.)

So when Gamora comes to him after they’ve docked, tells him that Brennan has cleaned out his bunk and took most of the fucking info on Grun and Mansoon with him, Peter only lets out a sigh and says, Thank God.

Finally, he felt like he could breathe again. He could relax, could feel that pressure around his neck loosen at long last, now that the giant problem casting a shadow over him had disappeared and taken Alec along with it. Good, he tells himself. Good fucking riddance. I’m fucking glad he’s gone.

And he was.

Until he wasn’t.

It starts small: a restlessness, an itching in his fingertips, an odd inability to get comfortable. Then it gets worse: pins and needles beneath his skin. Lightheadedness. An emptiness in his chest that grows and grows and grows until he feels completely hollow. Most of the time when it hits him, it’s not so bad. Enough that he can ignore it. But sometimes, it floors him, leaves him nauseated and feverish, like how he remembers Mom on the worst days. But she was a rare case, Gramps told him once or twice, as if that could reassure him. As if anything could reassure him, knowing that Mom had been fucked over twice: first, by a match who abandoned her, and second, by some quirk of the universe that gave her no choice but to feel it.

Apparently Peter takes after Mom, and he wonders during a particularly bad episode, soul-sick and shivering with exhaustion, How did she live with this?

… But the days between are fine. He lives his life as he always has, and the team keeps trudging along with their work in taking down Grun, eyeing Peter with undisguised concern over the unpredictable nature of his moods, of his health, and his refusal to discuss it. Drax keeps giving him that stare though, the one that says he knows more than he’s letting on, and Peter steadfastly ignores him. The big guy tries anyway. Corners him in the auspiciously named galley, once, but Peter had threatened to stick his hand in the disposal if Drax even thought about asking after him.

(He had conceived of it as a bluff, but wound up as he was, Peter might have actually gone through with it.)

Peter hopes with time and distance, that sickness will pass. Knows it won’t, but he’s always been a creature of half-hearted hope – wishing for the best, knowing damn well it likely won’t come true. But he keeps limping along, keeps picking away at work, because what the fuck else can he do? It’s not like he’s going to fucking chase Alec down just so he can feel normal again.

… And then he’s chasing Alec down so he can feel fucking normal again.

Because that starts off small, too: a feeling of wrongness. A quiet buzz at the back of his head. And then it gets worse: Claws wrapping around his throat. Ice plummeting in his gut. Full-blown panic that set his heart pounding against his ribs, that left Peter hyperventilating and nearly collapsing in the middle of a crowded shop while Gamora grasped his arms and Rocket shouted his name.

“Brennan,” was all Peter could manage to say, body shaking with that gnawing sense of terror. He shoved Gamora aside to get back to the ship. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Assuming he didn’t get himself killed first.

Fast forward to a compound being rocked by explosions, because the Guardians don’t do stealth. Fast forward to bullets and blaster fire pinging off walls and scorching metal siding. Fast forward to Gamora and Drax terrifying their opponents with their war cries and with the speed of their blades.

Fast forward to Peter, just a single locked door away from Alec, taking on a room full of guards. Shooting them with twin blasts of fire and lightning. Headbutting them with the metal brow of his helmet and not giving a single fuck when each impact makes him see white. Killing men with brutal, vicious efficiency.

Fast forward to Peter following a guard down as he falls, turning his face to mash with the butts of his blasters.

Peter has had a very, very bad time. ]

[ He supposes they should have seen it coming. Cramped on a small ship as they were, contact of some kind was inevitable, and, ironically, in trying not to think about one another or the connection they were forced to share, they ended up thinking about it more. And the universe found ways to tug them together, ever since they gave that bit of ground at the banquet.

Alec nearly left when he realized the truth of the events of that night- that he had acted because Peter was in danger, that the strange warm and content feeling was because Peter was near- but he had convinced himself that if they kept their distance there was no way it could get worse.

It wasn't a very convincing lie, but he stuck it out for a little bit anyway.

Oddly, he kept drifting back to that night after the banquet, not because that was where the whole mess started, but because that was the first time he and Peter actually managed to get along. He found himself thinking that is was a shame, this whole soulmate thing hanging over their heads, glinting and sharp like a blade. If not for that, they could have probably been friends.

And some small part of him said, If friends, then why not lovers? Why not more? In the end, that little voice was enough to scare him into vanishing.

He took the info, he felt like shit screwing the Guardians over like that because they had done nothing to deserve it, but he needed it. He needed to see this job through to the end. As soon as the Milano docked, Alec was gone, hitching a ride back to the little station where they had left his ship and getting as far away as he could.

At first, things were fine, and Alec allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction. His dad had been fine, his mother... presumably had been fine, and if that band of color on his old man's finger really did tie them together, then it obviously hadn't meant much at all. People just like to romanticize things.

Then the restlessness started creeping in. Keeping him up at night while he tossed and turned in his bunk, fidgeted over his consoles and robbed him of his ability to truly concentrate. It came and went like the tide, and each time seemed worse than the last. It crawled under his skin, prickling, gnawing, insistent, until it had eaten away a gaping hole in his chest, leaving him hollow and sick. On his truly bad days, he honestly felt like half a person, little more than a husk, and he wished to God he could make it go away. He tried slamming his barriers down, shutting it out the same way he had shut Quill out, but this hollow thing that had taken refuge in him was not so easily turned away.

More than once he entertained the thought of seeking out the Guardians, of tracking down Peter just so make it stop, please make it stop, but the prospect of being inexorably tied to someone whether he wants to be or not was too big, too scary, and he told himself he'll be fine. He just has to get used to it. The longer they're apart, the more their bond will weaken and soon things will be back to normal.

(Somehow, he knows that they won't.)

Alec continued working towards Grun, but his moods, his health, and that ever-present loneliness made him sloppy. He didn't cover his tracks as well as he would have normally, and one day someone found him. There were two of them, hulking men, one red and one green, like Christmas, and they approached him in the middle of some seedy bar on a dingy station. They said they work for a rival of Grun's. They said they know Alec has information on him. They made him an offer- work for their boss, ruin Grun and his empire. But Alec doesn't work for assholes just to screw other assholes over, and he told them to fuck right off.

They took him away after that. Even with all his tricks, the gaping hole in him left him off his game, and he woke up in a dark room with Gumby and Pokey looking very ready to cause him some hurt if he didn't tell them what he knew. He didn't, and they did.

His Enhancements helped him weather the first few days, and his captors were shocked when the Terran didn't crumple like aluminum foil under their beatings, so they stepped up their game. Stupid, to play that card so soon Alec realized, but by then it was too late. They nearly killed him on the day his magical stamina gave out and his Enhancements crumbled, but they manged to reel themselves in when they realized that something had changed and their victim was not as sturdy as he had been.

They eased off after that. Had to take a break because Alec was in a bad way.

He doesn't really remember how long ago that was. Consciousness comes and goes, though they had bandaged him up, set his bones and put him on the course to recovery just enough so that he might still be useful to him. Underneath the pain and the haze, that wrongness still remains, still gnaws at him every chance it gets, because life wasn't unfair enough already.

Maybe he's finally lost it, because he swears it's suddenly not as bad as it used to be. It eases by degrees, and it's only when he hears the commotion outside the little medbay-slash-prison cell where they have him held that he has the vague hope that maybe it's Peter out there.

And isn't that weird? That he hopes to see the guy again, where before they wanted nothing to do with one another. He could explore that feeling, but he's too tired and in too much pain to really bother. ]

[ Peter takes a moment to catch his breath, entire body shaking with the strain, with the panic and rage boiling in his blood.

Brennan. Fucking Brennan. I'll murder him my-fucking-self.

The man beneath him is little more than meat, practically unrecognizable. Green skin and raw hamburger for a face. Peter's fury had blinded him when he saw this guy. Doesn't know why. Just knows that there was hell to pay, and this man had the bill. ]

Found him.

[ This, spoken into his comm, his voice low and dark and wavering with his anger. Someone asks, "Are you sure?" though he doesn't know who. Doesn't really care, either. Except that he snaps back, ]

Positive.

[ There's blood on Peter's hands, on his guns, and he gives them a hasty wipe on the dead man's shirt before he lurches to his feet. A door. A single fucking door keeping him from Brennan. A pad for a hand print. A quick glance at the half dozen men littering the floor. He could drag them over, one by one. Hope one of them has the magic prints. Hope they still have enough residual heat in them to activate the key.

Then he decides, I don't have fucking time for this, and fires off a few bolts of lightning into the mechanism.

It fizzes. Sizzles. Shoots out sparks. And then, because he knows that alone isn't enough to do it (it never works like it does in the movies), Peter fires another dozen shots at the lock itself – fire, this time, over and over and fucking over until the metal is red and heated through.

Guns holstered. Deep breath.

The door slams against the wall as Peter shoulders through it. The red eyes of his mask concealing the way his eyes blaze, daring anyone else to come at him. Nothing. Silence.

Save for a quiet, rattling breath, and Peter's gaze falls on the form in the bed, broken and bruised and— ]

Brennan.

[ This, on a ragged exhale, and he darts forward, holstering his guns. ]

Brennan, you goddamn asshole.

[ This, snarled out, as his hands hover uncertainly. Fuck, he looks terrible. If it weren't for the connection, if it weren't for the fact that this looked like some kind of medbay, Peter would almost think the guy was actually fucking dead. His rage threatens to boil over again, coats his vision in red. Only someone's voice in his ear confirming they've got an exit manages to drag him out of the haze.

He hits the trigger for his mask, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek as it retracts. ]

Wake up, you bastard. [ Anger to mask the fear. An old tactic, but an effective one. ] If you die here, I'll kill you.

[ The commotion rings in his ears, and he vaguely thinks it's making his head hurt, but so much of him hurts that it's hard to tell.

But that voice cuts through the haze and he cracks one eye open- mostly because the other one is swollen shut and this is all he can do. It takes a few seconds for the blurry form hovering over him to finally take shape and-- well, what do you know? It is Peter.

Something in him breathes a sigh of relief, that hollow feeling easing as it does, but quick on its heels is anger and panic. The strength of it is intense, and Alec sucks in a breath through his teeth. ]

Calm down, asshole. You're freaking me out.

[ It comes out a little slurred but the thought is there. ]

Edited 2016-11-08 15:40 (UTC)

I’m freaking you out?

[ A few shades higher than normal, completely incredulous, and for a second that urge to punch this goddamn bastard in his already fucked up face makes his fist clench.

But, no. He’s not pissed at Brennan. (Well, he is, but that’s not important right now.) He takes a deep breath, holds it in his lungs for a few seconds, then lets it out on a slow exhale. After that, he’s slightly calmer. Not a lot, considering his hands still shake, and fury still licks up his throat, but enough. ]

We’re on our way out. [ He takes in the state of Alec, not bothering to hide his grimace. No condition to walk, he figures. ]

I’m calling Drax. He’ll have to carry you.

Works f'me.

[ His eyes- well, eye- slips shut again, and for a second it seems like he's drifted off, then the corner of his mouth twitches upwards, oh so slightly. ]

Can't say I was expecting a rescue.

[ As he gets in touch with his team again, Peter hangs onto their connection like a lifeline, that mounting headache bursting at his temples (and that’s strange, considering how long he had spent ignoring it, slamming down barriers to keep that connection from taking hold). It’s the only reason why he doesn’t immediately panic when Alec seems to slip away.

Still feels a quick flare of concern, though. Something icy that grips his lungs, but it melts away as soon as Drax confirms he’s on his way. ]

Can’t say I was expecting to mount one, either.

[ The words sound like they’re dragged from his lips, gruff and slow. He steps forward again, hand hovering over Alec’s arm. ]

Jesus, they did a number on you.

[ He'd like to laugh at just how obvious that statement is, but he can't quite muster the energy. ]

Yeah. Got sloppy. My fault.

[ He opens his eyes again, sees Peter standing there, worry on his face and hand hovering over his arm like he's not quite sure what to do. On impulse, Alec twitches his hand out, as much as the splint they have his arm in will allow, brushing his fingers over Peter's open palm. ] Sorry.

[ He feels a flash of comfort, of warmth, at the contact, feels something sing in him, but the second is short-lived, due in no small part to the brevity of the touch and to the molten fury still churning in his gut.

He grits out, ] You should be. [ but it doesn’t pack quite the punch he intends it to.

And the victory is hollow as hell, considering Alec is already mostly broken. And Christ, Peter hates seeing the people he (kind of, sort of, maybe just barely a little) likes hurt, but seeing Alec like this makes something tighten around his throat, makes his hands shake and his heart thud against his ribs.

Peter licks his lips, staring down at Alec’s arm, tries to remember where that invisible, red band is before putting his hand atop it. Stands to reason it might help, he supposes, like finding a weak point in armor and pressing the advantage. ]

If you think a shitty apology like that's gonna save you from me kickin' your ass, you're dead wrong.

[ Something about Peter's presence is a balm, soothing and warm, and taking the worst of the bite out of the pain of his injuries. He just basks in it, in their closeness and connection. He's gone so long without, he feels like a starving man who's been offered a feast, and in the moment he doesn't have the presence of mind to deny how much he wants this. ]

Figured as much. Just wait until I heal up, please.

[ A beat. ] We really can't escape from this, can we?

Ramey > open rp

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will i ever learn brevity. the answer is no.

that's okay i did the same thing

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