[ His focus slips in and out as they make their way back – not quite the gentle embrace of unconsciousness, as much as he'd like it, but something close to it. Enough that the trip is mostly a painful sort of blur, rather than anything worse.
The car ride makes him feel muzzy. Lazy, still. And he leans against the side of the car in that half-asleep state, breathes through the dull aches and sharp, shooting pain in his side without further complaint. By the time they're back on the Milano, that drowsiness recedes, with Peter heading one way and Alec heading the other. That pain slips into sharper focus when they part; Peter blames it on the reality of treated wounds hurting just as much as getting the damn things in the first place.
By the time Alec drops in, Peter is tucked into a seat in the corner his coat, vest, and tie draped over another chair nearby; he's waiting for Gamora or Drax, who are currently in the cargo area, turning the place upside down for that disgusting salve they use to promote healing. (Peter's pretty sure they used the last of it in their last sparring session and told them as much, but they both swear there's a jar of it somewhere on the ship.)
The top few buttons of his collar are unfastened, and he unconsciously runs the tips of his fingers across the invisible band on his throat. On the table beside him sits a mug filled with a steaming, foul-smelling brew – some tea Drax swears by as a painkiller. He glances up as Alec enters, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a shadow of a smile at his question. ]
Ohhh. [ He drags the word out on a quiet exhale. ] Definitely broken.
[ He presses an ice pack against his side, huffs out a quiet laugh. ]
no subject
The car ride makes him feel muzzy. Lazy, still. And he leans against the side of the car in that half-asleep state, breathes through the dull aches and sharp, shooting pain in his side without further complaint. By the time they're back on the Milano, that drowsiness recedes, with Peter heading one way and Alec heading the other. That pain slips into sharper focus when they part; Peter blames it on the reality of treated wounds hurting just as much as getting the damn things in the first place.
By the time Alec drops in, Peter is tucked into a seat in the corner his coat, vest, and tie draped over another chair nearby; he's waiting for Gamora or Drax, who are currently in the cargo area, turning the place upside down for that disgusting salve they use to promote healing. (Peter's pretty sure they used the last of it in their last sparring session and told them as much, but they both swear there's a jar of it somewhere on the ship.)
The top few buttons of his collar are unfastened, and he unconsciously runs the tips of his fingers across the invisible band on his throat. On the table beside him sits a mug filled with a steaming, foul-smelling brew – some tea Drax swears by as a painkiller. He glances up as Alec enters, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a shadow of a smile at his question. ]
Ohhh. [ He drags the word out on a quiet exhale. ] Definitely broken.
[ He presses an ice pack against his side, huffs out a quiet laugh. ]
Steel-toed boots. They get me every time.