pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ Well, that was a terrible fucking day.

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. ]

[ Alec keeps to himself, which isn't all that unusual considering he had been doing that before, but now he makes an extra effort to stay away from everyone on the ship. He's not just avoiding Peter, though he's especially avoiding Peter, but Alec is always thinking about how people perceive things. Avoiding them all is less likely to draw questions about why he's avoiding one of them specifically.

He has stopped reporting to Peter, mostly seeking out Gamora, sometimes the others if he has to. What few conversations he holds with his fellow Terran are from a distance and brief.

Hidden though it is, the red mark on his arm is always on his mind. Plaguing his every thought, gnawing uncomfortably at the back of his mind. The small space of the ship is suffocating, and every time he and Quill are forced to be within five feet of each other feels like the bars of a cage are ever closer to slamming down around them. (Years ago, before he left Earth, he remembers hearing the phrase "red ring of death" tossed around in relation to a game console. It seems scarily accurate to his current situation.) More than once, the urge strikes him to just run. To turn tail and get as far away as he can, to put Peter Quill and that damnable ring of color around his throat as far behind him as possible. It's tempting, and his bag sits packed and ready to go even now. Each time he talks himself out of it, if only because he knows what this job means to his career. There's too much riding on this, and if they continue to be careful, there shouldn't be a problem.

But then, of course, there is a problem. A problem in the form of a party, their one shot to start unraveling Vhenarl Grun's whole empire and getting away from Peter goddamn Quill for good.

Gamora makes a good point, and under normal circumstances, Alec would be on board, but not this time. Not with his freedom, his individuality, his very way of life, at stake. He straightens in his seat to offer protest- some bullshit about being more suited to behind the scenes work, but Gamora is quick to put both he and Peter in their places. (He even tries to appeal to her after the fact, feeding her a line about how she knows how Peter works much better than he does, and she's much more suited for this job, but she's not having it.)

He arrives in the common area of the ship similarly dressed and similarly anxious. The latter, he keeps behind his usual carefully constructed air of flippancy and ego. He already hides so much, what's one more layer? ]

Ride's waiting, Star-Guy. Let's get going.

[ Peter's body turns rigid at Alec's approach, and he doesn't bother to turn when he hears his voice. Takes deep breath after deep breath instead (or at least, as deep as his growing anxiety might allow), before pushing off from the table.

It says quite a lot, too, that he doesn't bristle when Alec uses the wrong call sign – he's already practically puffed up like a porcupine; nowhere else to go from there – but he says a lot more that he doesn't correct him. Hell must have frozen over tonight.

He moves away from the table, slams the control for the bay door with the meat of his fist. The doors part, and sure enough, their ride – a sleek black aircar – idles in front of them.

Without turning, he growls, ]

Let's just get this fucking over with.

[ Alec rolls his eyes, but doesn't offer any kind of protest as he follows Peter. He slips into the car, staying as far away from Peter as the space will allow him. ]

Look, once we get in, we can split up. You do your thing, I'll do mine.

[ Peter leans against the door on the opposite side, staring out the window as the world passes. For a long moment, he stays silent after Alec speaks, as though he hasn't heard him – or at least, that he's not inclined to answer.

Then, begrudgingly, ]

What are you planning on doing.

[ It's a question, but he asks it flatly, with little intonation and again, without looking Alec's way. A kid throwing a tantrum. ]

[ Normally Alec might take issue with Peter's attitude, but right now he just... does not care. The more distant they are, the better. ]

Gonna work my way back into the estate. See what I can dig up there.

[ Another lengthy pause. ]

If you get your dumbass caught...

[ He trails off, half warning, half threat. The former, because he doesn't want Alec to blow their cover and ruin this for them. The latter, because he doesn't plan on bailing him out. ]

[ Blandly, as he stares out the window, ]

I don't get caught, Quill.

[ He glances over for half a second – eyes darting over and darting away just as quickly. He could say a few things right now, about a certain jail in which the Guardians found him and subsequently sprung him. It'd be the easy jab.

But mostly Peter thinks about the walls closing in around them, bit by damning bit. The rope cinching around his neck to steal away his breath.

His hand goes to the invisible band at his throat, fingers ghosting along it unconsciously. He turns toward the window again, scowling out at the night.

There's a touch of bitterness in his words when he replies, ]

Counting on that, Brennan.

[ That seems to be the end of that. The rest of the ride passes in heavy silence. Alec fiddles with his sleeve more than once, wary and anxious, like the mark there might burn a hole through the fabric at any moment and set the whole car ablaze.

They make it to the venue without spontaneously bursting into flames, though whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. Alec slips out of the car, waiting for Peter to exit. This is the most difficult part of the night, he knows, because they'll have to enter together. ]

Just so you know, I'm not expecting you to hold my hand or anything.

[ He slams the car door shut behind him with far more force than necessary. Doesn't even bother to look apologetic about it as other nearby guests glance over at him with disapproving frowns. But he's being stupid about this, he knows. He needs to calm the fuck down, or he might be the one to blow this for them.

Deep breath, Quill. It's just one night. How much damage could it do?

His hand still rests against his collar, just above the knot of his tie, and while he still doesn't look over at Alec, he at least looks calmer. More focused. Less like that helpless, unrestrained rage might lash out and immolate whatever poor soul happens to draw close. When he speaks, his voice is more subdued, a touch more refined. ]

Good to know. Would've hated to disappoint you when I didn't.

[ He adjusts his cuff links, straightens his jacket, keeps his gaze focused on the entrance of the estate, abuzz with activity. He nods toward it. ]

Shall we?

[ Alec is half a breath away from telling Quill to calm the fuck down himself, but he seems to manage it on his own.

In spite of the circumstances, Alec is surprised at Quill's subtle shift in demeanor. He's reminded of that moment in the alley, before everything went to hell and their worlds were turned upside down. Quill's good at what he does, Alec will give him that.

He adjusts his tie and motions Peter forward. ]

Usually, it's age before beauty, but I'll let beauty go first, just this once.

[ He rolls his eyes at that – it's a cheesy sort of line, but it's in line with their covers. Gamora's bright idea, a-fucking-gain, that they should be affianced. More plausible that way that they should bring the other as their plus one.

(Didn't stop Peter from arguing, though.

"Call it an arranged marriage, then," Gamora had snapped at Peter. "If we don't move on, I will break every bone in your body."

He settled into a moody silence after that.)

Even if he bristles at the familiarity of it, the candid flirtation of it, he swallows it down like bitter medicine and trudges forward.

Slipping through the check-in is easy enough. Peter shows their invitation to the woman at the door, and she smiles brightly as she waves them inside. The party is already in full swing, now that they've arrived, though the two of them are not the only guests to arrive fashionably late. Beings of all colors, shapes, sizes, mill around the first floor of the mansion; the main staircase in the foyer is cordoned off, a guard stationed at the first step to prevent anyone from slipping upstairs.

It's the grand hall that holds the bulk of the activity, and there that Peter leads them, following the other guests in. Appearances, mostly, than any desire to actually participate in the party. Nevertheless, he snatches a glass of dark wine from a passing servant, downs at least half of it in one go. ]

You got your comm patched in?

[ He asks it quietly, once they're more or less alone, eyes scanning over the assembled crowd. ]

[ Alec vaguely wonders if his apparent nonchalance bothers Peter. The other man is obviously struggling, angry and twitchy and anxious, like that ring around his neck is literally choking him. Alec is no different, but he’s had a very long time to learn how to take the nasty and unwanted things and shove them very far away, locking them behind heavy steel doors of indifference and sarcasm.

It’s still there, the feeling of suffocation, of a guillotine looming above their heads, liable to drop at any moment and do them both in, he just hides it better.

Ultimately, he doesn’t care if it bothers Peter, because he doesn’t care about Peter. He can’t care about Peter, because giving just the slightest inch is as good as throwing open the gates, and he refuses to share himself with someone like that. Not after what happened to his dad.

So they play nice just long enough to get in the door, long enough to get a good look at the room, and apparently long enough for Peter to grab a drink. ]

I’m good.

[ He casts Peter a sideways glance. ]

Try not to drink too much.

[ Read: do not fuck this up. ]

[ His expression remains benign as he sips at the wine, the movement of his lips concealed by the glass. He still keeps his gaze fixed on the assembly as he replies blandly, ]

You can fuck right off.

[ punctuated with another mouthful of the bittersweet drink. ]

Worry about yourself. Pretty sure that’s what you’re good at.

[ He glances over at Peter again, expression carefully calm. That doesn’t stop something cold from seeping into his gaze, for just a second. ]

I’m worrying about the job, Quill. Maybe you should too.

[ He departs after that, slipping into the crowd to carefully mingle, all bright smiles and easy laughter. It gets easier to ignore Peter’s presence, the further away they get, and this ballroom is the largest space they’ve shared in a while. For a moment, he feels like he can breathe again. ]

[ He barely restrains the urge to scowl at Alec’s retreating back, though he bores holes into it with his eyes, all the same.

After that, he polishes off the glass, leaves it with another passing waitress. He takes up a second glass, but only nurses it, instead of chugging it as he had before. This glass is more for appearances than for enjoyment (or for throwing back, as the case may be); he reluctantly admits Brennan has a point: there’s work to do.

He stomps down on the resentment, the bitterness, (the cold slither of fear,) shoves it into the mental box labeled in angry red, “Shit to Deal with Later (Or Possibly Never).” Evidently they’ve drawn invisible lines down the center of the grand hall, and while Alec heads in one direction, Peter turns himself toward the other. Plastering on his best smile, he moves in the opposite direction, intent on gathering information. ]

[ Alec meanders through the crowd, as much working as he is enjoying the space to himself. He gives the crowd a cursory scan for Peter now and then, if only so he knows the other’s position and can stay as far away from him as possible.

A lot of what he learns isn’t much different from what he’s already dug up on his own- these people are here to kiss Mansoon’s ass, and if Alec were a betting man, he’d wager only about half of these people had any real idea about what this woman got up to in her spare time. All he gets is droll business gossip, and soon decides it’s time to move on.

He finds a relatively private corner to duck into. Wine glass pressed to his lips, he mutters into his comm, ]

I’m going to go for the stairs.

[ Peter similarly finds his own little spot, slightly removed from the crowd. He leans back against the wall, bringing his glass to his lips. He considers letting the comment go unremarked, but he relents. They’re working, after all. And as pissed as he is with this whole fucking mess, the more professional Peter is about this whole thing, the easier it will go, the sooner they can leave. His hand brushes against the back of his ear to trigger the comm, passing it off as an itch. ]

Don’t get caught.

[ Almost a half hour passes after that stellar encouragement. As he’s pausing to get his bearings again, Peter spots someone approaching. Tall. Dark blue skin – Kree, Peter thinks. Black suit and shirt and that weird mud caked on his face; a hard, determined air to him. Guard, then. If Peter’s lucky, he’ll just continue on past.

(When is Peter ever lucky when it counts, though?)

The Kree stands a good half-foot over him, crowds into his space, and despite that flicker of nervousness in his stomach, Peter keeps in character. He glances at the guard from the corner of his eye, takes another mild sip from his wine. ]

Do they normally instruct you to stand so close to guests?

[ Disdain dripping in his voice. Peter moves to leave, but the Kree’s hand wraps around Peter’s elbow as he steps around into Peter’s line of sight. Another flicker of that nervousness, but Peter stares down at that blue hand like it’s filthy with slime, lip curling away from his teeth. Peter tries to yank his arm away, but the guard tightens his grip, expression unchanged. He pries the wine glass from Peter’s hand, leaves it on the pedestal of a nearby statue. ]

You’ll come with me, sir.

[ Not that he gives Peter much chance to argue, as he pulls him from the room. The guard drags him up a dark staircase meant for the staff, leads him through a similarly dark hall to a quiet wing. The corridor should have been filled to bursting with Peter’s griping, except the instant the guard had dragged Peter out of sight, he had clamped a hand over his mouth, wrapped an arm around his throat. Peter’s mind races as he struggles, protests and cries for help muffled by the Kree, trying to think of any mistakes he might have made tonight. It’s all a blank. He well and truly can’t think of anything he might have done to draw suspicion, unless—

… Brennan.

That smug, prickish bastard must’ve thrown him under the goddamn bus without Peter noticing.

Fuck. Fuck.

A door opens, and the guard shoves him through, twisting his arm up and behind his back and forcing him to his knees. He grabs a handful of Peter’s hair, yanking his head to one side as another guard – a pink-skinned Kree, Peter thinks, judging by his height and the similar black markings on his face – steps forward, jabbing his neck with some handheld device while Peter yelps in surprise. ]

What the hell—

[ He feels a little droplet of blood forming on his neck where the guard poked him. The room is bare. Grey walls and a dark tile floor with a single drain at its center that draws Peter’s focus. That… doesn’t seem promising, Peter thinks. ]

Guy wasn’t kiddin’. It’s him, alright.

[ Peter tries to figure out who he means by “guy,” and while logic would dictate he could mean literally anyone – another guard, another guest, a driver, a servant – Peter’s mind keeps settling on that goddamn fucking bastard, Brennan. The pink-skinned man shows the screen on the device to his companion. Peter feels himself pale when he sees his own name from the back of the clear screen, along with his mugshot and an old copy of his rap sheet. ]

Works with Nova Corps now, doesn’t he? [ The first guard, that time, twisting Peter’s arm up higher to drag a pained grunt from him. ] Boss is gonna wanna know we got grunts snoopin’ around.

Yeah, yeah. [ The second guard, scowling down at Peter. Then, a predatory smile that sends a chill down Peter’s spine. ] Five minute head start on loosening him up. Then we call the boss.

[ Peter tries to work a word in edgewise, tries to come up with a bullshit excuse as to how, exactly, this was all one big misunderstanding, that he could totally explain himself, why he had entered under a fake name, why he actually had no idea what the hell was going on, and really, if they could just let him go, they’d all get a huge, giant laugh out of this—

Except the guard behind him chuckles darkly and says, ] Good idea.

[ And slams Peter face first into the tile floor. ]

[ Yes, that was truly an inspiring bit of advice, and inwardly, Alec rolls his eyes. What did he expect really?

From there, he mills around for a bit, finding a place where no one would notice if he were to… vanish. Moving through a crowd while mostly invisible was tricky at best, and he had initially resigned himself to having to work his way back to the stairs at the foyer, but luck was kind enough to throw him a bone for once. One of Mansoon’s security staff exits a stairway near Alec’s hiding spot, allowing him to slip past the man and into the back corridors of the building. Cat-quiet, he slinks along, though the halls are blessedly empty for the moment. He pokes his head in a couple of rooms, not finding much (and in one case, finding literally nothing but bare walls and a bare floor). One room, however, does yield results. Down a short hall splitting off from the main thoroughfare is a small office, a pair of desks shoved against two walls, a computer console on each.

After warding the door, Alec settles in, and for a few blessed minutes is able to just work. This is where he’s most comfortable, snooping through someone else’s stuff and quietly stealing away their secrets.

However, suddenly and sharply, something like dread crawls up his spine. He whips around to look at the door, but there’s no movement on the other side. No noises from the hall. A shake of his head and he goes back to his work. He’s just being paranoid, he tells himself, but the feeling doesn’t go away. In fact, it gets worse. A sense of wrongness becomes a sense of distress, and Alec can hardly focus with the way it’s howling in his ears.

Without thinking, his hand goes to his comm, like he’s moving on instinct. ]

Quill, anything happening down there?

[ No answer. No answer and that feeling digs its claws into the back of his neck, rakes its fangs over his brain, and Alec buries his face in his hands, palms pressed to his eyes so hard he sees stars. What the fuck was happening? Why was this feeling so strong and why couldn’t he ignore it? The distress is so strong, so persistent, and has him so rattled that the obvious doesn’t even occur to him, doesn’t even dawn on him that something is wrong, and it’s screaming at him through whatever sorry connection he and Peter share.

He yanks his datastick from the computer- he didn’t manage to get much, but maybe they can make something of it- and springs from his chair. Whatever his instincts are telling him means he can’t stay here, that much is clear.

Alec waves away the wards on the door, activating his camouflage and slipping into the hall. He creeps back the way he came, but when he makes it to the main hallway, it’s clear he’s no longer alone. There’s noises coming from the room at the end of the hall- the distressingly empty room. Noises of pain ricochet off of the bare walls, pinging their way down the hall, and that cold, terrible thing grabs hold of Alec, freezing him there a second.

(It’s because they’ve been discovered, he tells himself. Because the job is going belly-up. Not because Quill is in danger, because he doesn’t care.)

He moves to the door, his own urgency surprising him, and raps sharply with a knuckle. It must have sounded authoritative enough that one of the men inside opens the door, squinting in confusion when there is apparently no one there. Alec sketches out a spell, and a wave of force slams into the Kree like a runaway train, throwing the door wide and sending the man careening into the opposite wall.

He steps inside the now open door and flings a lightning bolt at the second guy, the streak of electricity coming from seemingly nowhere and slamming into the Kree’s chest. ]

[ Two against one is fucking unfair, he thinks.

Or at least, that’s what he thinks for those spare moments where he’s still mostly coherent. They make sport of it for a little bit, warriors that they are. Give him a handful of seconds to try to fight back. And he does alright, thanks to the training Drax and Gamora had forced on him, the drills they had made him run, over and over and over. (Arms up. Guard your head. Time your blows, you impatient ass, do you want your brains splattered on the walls?)

He can do this, he thinks. He doesn’t need help. He can totally do this. He can—

A meaty fist, straight into the side of his head that makes him see stars, sends him crashing against the wall.

The two guards are stronger. Better. They let him get to the door a couple of times, his hand stretching for the control before they drag him back. They get the rhythm of him, and after that, the game is over.

Un-fucking-fair, he thinks, the third time he’s sent spinning to the tile floor, spitting out blood.

Five minutes feels like an eternity, and this time when he falls, he doesn’t get up. Tries, though. He gets his hands underneath him to push up onto all fours. Only manages to lift himself part of the way before his arms give out, and he falls back against the tile. Tries again, with even less success. He thinks he hears one of them scoff above him, tutting his disapproval. ]

Thought he’d last longer.

[ A boot nudging his side, then a murmur of agreement. ]

I’ll call—

[ A knock on the door, though Peter hardly notices. Tries to keep the blackness from encroaching on his vision. Tries to focus on breathing. Tries to get up again, because some animal instinct is compelling him to get to his fucking feet, because you’re going to die here, Quill. You’re going to fucking die if you don’t—

A body flying overhead, slamming against the wall, the plaster cracking under the impact. It falls to the floor in a heap. The whipcrack of electricity, the smell of ozone, and the blue-skinned Kree collapsing nearby, sizzling and twitching.

Peter can’t quite lift his head, manages instead to loll to one side to see what fresh hell these last few seconds have provided and— ]

You.

[ It’s little more than a wheeze, the word creaking out of his lungs on a ragged exhale, and he tries to push himself up again. ]

Fuck. You fucking— [ He coughs, spits blood. ] —you— sold me out—

[ Alec drops his camouflage when he drops the second Kree, and that weird knot in his gut tightens a little when his eyes fall on Peter, broken and bleeding and struggling to stand.

However, Peter's words make whatever strange urgent dread that had slammed into him so suddenly burn up instantly in a flash of anger. ]

What the fuck are you talking about?

Recognized me. [ Somehow, even barely voiced, he manages to weave a touch of accusation into his voice. His hand twitches toward the closest Kree, still unconscious (dead? Peter doesn't know which. Doesn't care, if he's honest). ]

Knew who I was.

[ which, like, never happens, no matter how infamous Peter felt his call sign might be.

It seems a logical conclusion, at least to him. Alec wanders off on his own. Peter gets nabbed for being himself. Which must mean Alec ratted him out.

Logic.

Peter gives up on the idea of being upright for now, his shaking arms collapsing beneath him, letting himself fall back to the floor. At least the tile is blessedly cool against his face. And, really, sleeping probably wouldn't be the worst thing he's done today; blackness waits at the edge of his vision, tempting and welcoming and standing with wide, open arms. ]

[ Alec's gaze flicks from the Kree to Peter, and he has to take some mighty leaps in logic to figure out just what Peter means. ]

You ever think I'm not the only person at this party who remembers your face, asshole?

[ He's ready to argue further, but Peter hits the floor with a wet-sounding thwap, and Alec starts. That sense of distress coils in his chest again, gnawing, gnashing. ]

Quill?

[ He nudges Peter with a foot, though that doesn't seem to do much. He crouches, hands on the other man's shoulders as he rolls Peter onto his back. ]

Hey. Hey! Don't fucking pass out on me. I'm not carrying your sorry ass back to the ship!

[ He's just drifting off as Alec turns him, and the movement jars him back into consciousness, pulls a strained noise from the back of his throat as he settles onto his back. ]

That hurt.

[ Then, not too long after that, ]

Fuck you.

[ Apparently that's just his instinctual response to Alec, by now; there's little heat behind the words as he dutifully recites them.

But he's awake, mostly, despite every desire to the contrary. He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, lets his arm fall across his middle. His suit is a fucking mess, and maybe in a little while, he'll mourn its passing. (He liked this suit. He likes everything he wears.) Now, though, it feels restricting, like he can't quite get a good breath of air into his lungs.

Or maybe that's because of that weird, echo of a sensation just behind his sternum. Cold and barbed and yawning with a mouth full of teeth. He brings up both hands to his brow, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars.

... Doesn't know what compelled him to do that, though, because that fucking hurt (everything fucking hurts), and he jerks one of his hands away from his face. ]

Shit.

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

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