pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ 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.

Sorry. It was either that or let you pass out, and I already said I'm not gonna carry your dumb ass.

[ He jerks his head a little- Peter's face is a mess, and just watching that hurt. ]

Still wanna bitch at me or can we get out of here?

Fuck you.

[ Has he said that yet? He feels like he hasn't.

Part of him still doesn't trust this asshole, but considering Peter hardly thinks he can stand on his own right now, much less walk, he'll have to take what he can get.

He takes a few breaths, as deep as his body allows, as deep as that cold, coiling thing in his chest lets him, and he reaches out toward Alec. ]

Gimme a hand.

You keep saying that. The answer is no and it's always gonna be no.

[ But he'll take that last part as a "yes, let's get out of here" and that weird gnawing in his chest seems to ease a little. He brushes it off as frustration over this whole thing going tits up, and stands to offer Peter a hand. ]

Try not to bleed on me.

[ Just for that, Peter decides he's going to bleed all over him on principle.

It's an effort, but the two of them manage to get Peter to his feet, though he stumbles once he gets there, legs trying to buckle beneath him. He has to grab on to Alec to regain his equilibrium. That alone is mortifying and infuriating enough, and Peter mumbles a half-hearted, ]

Sorry.

[ Peter also probably gets blood on Alec's sleeve.

He does not say sorry for that.

He presses a hand against his ribs, his other arm draped over Alec's shoulders, has to lean on him for support far more than he wants to. ]

Get anything? [ because talking about work is better than wandering the mansion halls in stony silence. A distraction, at the very least. Otherwise Peter might resort to childish insults regarding Alec's person. ]

[ For a moment he thinks he really is going to have to carry Peter, and that's not something either of them want. This is too much already, but they're left with little by way of choices.

He slings Peter's arm over his shoulders, looping his own arm around Peter's back to support him. He's got him well in hand enough now, but if the going gets too rough, he always has his Enhancements to fall back on.

The apology is noted but passes without remark. The blood on Alec's sleeve also goes without remark, because he just wants to get out of here. ]

Not much. Found some consoles but didn't manage to get far.

You?

[ A quiet, noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. ]

'Parently Mansoon's breeding racing Swerzogs.

[ So, you know, a whole lot of nothing. They trek onward in silence before Peter makes a scoffing noise, angry and frustrated. ]

Didn't get shit out of this, did we.

[ Alec falls quiet for a beat or two. Something bitter rises in the back of his throat, frustration, yes, but the fact that this was a bust means that this mission is going to drag on longer, and that’s not a thought he wants to entertain.

His eyes flick to the little side hallway from where he had previously come, and he runs his tongue over his lower lip in thought. ]

We might be able to salvage this, but that depends. Did those two assholes tell anyone else you were here?

[ He gives a little shake of his head, hissing in a breath when he takes too large of a step. ]

No, I don’t think—

[ He frowns a little, thinking back on it. Then, with more certainty, ]

No. They were just about to, but…

[ He trails off, then makes a small noise at the back of his throat, as if to say, You know. After another pause, ]

Someone tipped them off. [ With his head on a little straighter now, he knows it’s unlikely it was Alec. Still, that little pang of mistrust sounds in him – aimless, this time. ] Dunno who.

[ He slows them both to a stop, going over the possibilities. He imagines that whoever threw Peter under the bus was keeping a close eye on him, and probably saw him get nabbed by Beavis and Butthead back there, so it’s safe to assume they’re out of play for the moment.

And since the two Kree didn’t get as far as telling anyone else they had a prisoner, it’s also safe to assume they’re not expecting any more company up here for a while. ]

Think you can hold out long enough for me to take another crack at those computers?

Just go.

[ No hesitation. He doesn’t want to go back to the ship empty-handed, especially not if it means they’ll have to start from scratch on this stupid fucking job. ]

Won’t have a another chance at this. I’ll be fine. [ Because he’s a stubborn ass, and he refuses to be the one holding them back. ]

Hurry.

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