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.
will i ever learn brevity. the answer is no.
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. ]