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