[ Peter sticks around. He hovers. He stays, because what the fuck else can he do?
He knows, logically, that he could probably head back to the ship or wander around the station while Alec recovers. Distance would probably only be a problem when they were planets apart, but there's a visceral need in him to have eyes on Brennan while he's recovering. The guy's still hurt, and Peter can feel it. Not directly, beyond a soreness across his shoulders, a headache behind his eyes, a quick twinge here and there, but enough that some base instinct is telling him to protect this fucking asshole. Keep him in his sights.
And Peter hates it. He hates every fucking second of it. But what does it say about him that he gives in to it, all the same?
(That he's weak, probably. That the band around his throat is as good as a collar and a lead tied directly to Brennan, who couldn't give any less of a shit about it.
Awesome.)
The hospital staff have stopped trying to shoo him away after that first night, though. Apparently Gamora and Drax smoothed things over by being their usual terrifying selves. Rocket had acted as moral support, though he didn't have the first clue why any of them were kicking up such a fucking fuss. Peter sleeps back on the ship most of the time, but that's only when he manages to make it back. Otherwise, there's an uncomfortable couch and extra blankets and pillows with his name on it, that shamefully, he uses at least half of the nights.
It reminds him so much of Earth. Sitting and waiting with Mom as she struggled for breath, struggled to speak. Her thin fingers ghosting across the band on her wrist with a fond smile in spite of everything. It must have faded into scar tissue when she passed, but Peter doesn't remember. Just remembers kicking and screaming and begging, not her. not now. please, please, please.
He's sitting sideways on the couch now as he thinks on it all. On Mom, on Brennan, on the invisible rope between them. His feet are kicked up on the visitor chair (the couch isn't large enough to sprawl out on, which means if he spends the night, he has to curl up on it). He doesn't realize he's staring until Alec speaks, deep in thought as he is. When Alec rouses him, his entire body tenses, like an animal caught in a clearing. He says nothing for a second or two, almost like he intends to ignore the foray into conversation, but the tense silence that so often falls between them wears on his nerves. Makes him jumpy and waspish. And he hates that as much as anything.
At last, he lets out a slow breath as he drags his gaze up to meet Alec's. ]
You mean the wavy thing? [ A little gruffly, like he's still not sure if talking is a good idea. A gesture to mimic drawing in the air. ] That's casting?
no subject
He knows, logically, that he could probably head back to the ship or wander around the station while Alec recovers. Distance would probably only be a problem when they were planets apart, but there's a visceral need in him to have eyes on Brennan while he's recovering. The guy's still hurt, and Peter can feel it. Not directly, beyond a soreness across his shoulders, a headache behind his eyes, a quick twinge here and there, but enough that some base instinct is telling him to protect this fucking asshole. Keep him in his sights.
And Peter hates it. He hates every fucking second of it. But what does it say about him that he gives in to it, all the same?
(That he's weak, probably. That the band around his throat is as good as a collar and a lead tied directly to Brennan, who couldn't give any less of a shit about it.
Awesome.)
The hospital staff have stopped trying to shoo him away after that first night, though. Apparently Gamora and Drax smoothed things over by being their usual terrifying selves. Rocket had acted as moral support, though he didn't have the first clue why any of them were kicking up such a fucking fuss. Peter sleeps back on the ship most of the time, but that's only when he manages to make it back. Otherwise, there's an uncomfortable couch and extra blankets and pillows with his name on it, that shamefully, he uses at least half of the nights.
It reminds him so much of Earth. Sitting and waiting with Mom as she struggled for breath, struggled to speak. Her thin fingers ghosting across the band on her wrist with a fond smile in spite of everything. It must have faded into scar tissue when she passed, but Peter doesn't remember. Just remembers kicking and screaming and begging, not her. not now. please, please, please.
He's sitting sideways on the couch now as he thinks on it all. On Mom, on Brennan, on the invisible rope between them. His feet are kicked up on the visitor chair (the couch isn't large enough to sprawl out on, which means if he spends the night, he has to curl up on it). He doesn't realize he's staring until Alec speaks, deep in thought as he is. When Alec rouses him, his entire body tenses, like an animal caught in a clearing. He says nothing for a second or two, almost like he intends to ignore the foray into conversation, but the tense silence that so often falls between them wears on his nerves. Makes him jumpy and waspish. And he hates that as much as anything.
At last, he lets out a slow breath as he drags his gaze up to meet Alec's. ]
You mean the wavy thing? [ A little gruffly, like he's still not sure if talking is a good idea. A gesture to mimic drawing in the air. ] That's casting?