pullmeoutalive | Ramey

Not just no, Peter, but fuck no.

[ There's a bit of good humor to his tone, alongside his usual sarcasm. The fact that Peter's first name just kind slipped out totally escapes his notice. ]

You should definitely drink it, though. I think it'll be good for you.

Fuck off.

[ Instinct draws the words from him again, but his exhaustion saps the heat from them.

Still, he does lift the mug with his free hand, because if Drax comes back and sees he hasn't touched it, he's sure to turn the Dad Gaze on him. It's an indignity he doesn't want to suffer tonight.

Still, he can't bring himself to drink, and the disgust is clear in the tight set of his lips, in the corners of his eyes. ]

Did you need actually something, or did you just wanna kick me while I was down, too?

[ He gives the small bottle of pain pills he dredged up a little shake. ] I spent my night carrying some poor asshole around. Wasn't real great on my back.

[ Peter casts him a flat, unimpressed look. ]

Go to hell.

[ Again, the words are familiar, but they lack their usual heat, their usual shape. Blunter, softer, flatter. ]

Keep that shit up, and I might throw this mug at you. Then you'd be burned, sore, and smell like shit.

[ He snorts, and a smirk somehow makes its way onto his face ] Go a head, but I've got a shield, so you're just gonna end up with a big mess and a second cup of tea when Drax finds out you ruined the first one.

[ His expression immediately pinches, and he glares down at the mug in his hand, apparently still wondering if he ought to take his chances.

It is a long, long thoughtful moment.

But eventually he thinks better of it, scowling at the dark, brackish substance. ]

I hate you.

[ the tea? alec? in all likelihood, he means both. ]

Edited 2016-11-03 01:16 (UTC)

[ He assumes Peter at least means him so. ]

I know.

Now go on and drink up.

[ The scowl gets directed at Alec this time, before he takes long inhale, a long exhale. Then another set. Then a third.

Then just. Takes a mouthful.

He very, very nearly spits it up, but he clamps a hand over his mouth. Sheer willpower alone makes him swallow the tea, forcing it down his throat, but he gags once it's clear. ]

Don't— [ And there's a definite throaty quality to his voice, now, pitched low and threaded with disgust. ] —don't you say a goddamn word.

[ That reaction was visceral enough to make Alec's skin crawl. He gives a little shudder, face scrunching in sympathy ]

You want me to pour that down the drain for you or--?

Don't bother. He'll know.

[ He tried that once, but the smell was pungent enough that even with about five minutes of running water straight down the drain and masking it with soap, Drax took one sniff and leveled a heavy, pinning stare at Quill. ]

Vile as this shit is, it does actually work.

[ This time he ventures a sip, and while he doesn't gag, his face does immediately sour as he forces himself to swallow. ]

Granted— [ He makes a disgusted noise – ugh – as he wipes at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. ] —that's probably 'cause you're too distracted with not throwing up, but still.

As if I needed more of an incentive not to get injured around here.

[ He pops a couple of the pain pills out of the bottle and into his mouth before putting the bottle away. He should probably go, considering he just took care of his whole reason for being there, but there's something in him that's making him reluctant to ]

Where did Drax and Gamora get off to anyway?

Digging through the cargo bay on a wild goose chase.

[ For his part, Peter doesn't seem to mind the company. (A part of him says he should bite and snap like a wild dog on a chain, bark and snarl until Alec just goes the hell away, but the voice is distant and soft. Buried beneath layers and layers of comfort and exhaustion.)

He sets the mug aside to gesture to the ice pack. His shirt covers the damage, but his torso is a mess of dark splotches, concentrated on his left side. ]

Gamora's got some ointment she likes to use on bruising. They used it up all up last week, but those assholes never listen to me.

[ Ah. And with Rocket currently pouring over the files that Alec gave him (and Groot presumably being a shoulder Groot to Rocket), that meant it was just the two of them. He should find that more worrying than he does ]

They sure like to fuss over you, don't they?

Comes part and parcel with being the weak link.

[ Well. These days, Groot sits just beneath him on the "keep encased in plastic bubble wrap at all costs" totem pole, but considering the guy literally came back from death – or some form of him did, at least – it's not much of a consolation.

And the statement is a little more honest than he would normally go for, especially with Alec, evidenced by the barest edge of bitterness in his words. Can't seem to care about that, either, not with that warm edge of relaxation returning.

The tea, he thinks. Or maybe that exhaustion coming back in full force. ]

Can't all be tricked out with mods and magic, I guess.

[ Alec's eyebrows go up, and he's struck by the candidness of that statement. Granted, in a group of alien assassins and modded whatevers and a tree, he supposes that lone human would feel a little bit like the ordinary one. The fragile one. ]

Just cause you can't punch a guy through a wall doesn't make you the weak link, you know.

[ He snorts out a laugh ]

Says the guy who nearly threw a dude through a wall tonight. And zapped another dude to kingdom come.

Yeah, yeah, it probably sounds like empty platitudes from a guy who can shoot lightning out of his fingertips. But you can act circles around me, and I can't shoot to save my life.

You're good at what you do.

Alright.

[ He doesn't bother in the slightest to sound convinced or convincing. ]

I appreciate the after school special, Brennan, but, I mean, I don't really need it.

I can't tell if that's a "please stop stroking my ego" or a thinly-veiled "please don't stop stroking my ego".

[ The corner of his mouth twitches up, though soon after he plasters on a bland sort of look. ]

Maybe it's a little of both.

[ Peter shifts in his seat, slouching down to stretch his legs out. He tips his head against the backrest of the chair. ]

Rocket still going through the info?

[ He finds himself echoing that little smirk, just for a second ]

Yeah. I figured I'd let him have at it. I'm too tired to care right now.

[ Too tired to keep standing, in fact. The events of the evening must be catching up to him, since he just feels kind of pleasantly warm and lethargic. He plops into the chair near Peter, the one with his ruined clothes hanging over the back of it. ]

They did a number on your suit.

[ He huffs out a laugh.

(He doesn't realize it, but he tips his head toward Brennan slightly when he sits down beside him. Just the barest little shift closer. ]

Yeah. That was the real injustice of this fucking mess.

[ The seam of one of the shoulders of his jacket is torn apart; the tie is a wrinkled mess. He plucks absently at the crease of his trouser leg with a bandaged hand, where there's a rip at the knee. His shoes are scuffed, and the cuffs and collar of his white shirt are stained with dried blood.

A mournful little sigh, as he lets his hand drop back into his lap. ]

Guess I won't be trottin' this suit out again any time soon.

[ He leans a little as well, as he settles back in the chair. Though he does lean forward when Peter picks at his pantleg, etching out a quick rune in the air over the torn fabric.

The mark vanishes, and the tear knits itself back together as though it were never there in the first place. ]

I'm afraid that's all I've got in terms of fix-it spells.

[ That flash of purple again, and it— doesn't grate as much as it used to. Doesn't send that flare of disgust through him like it would have done a day ago.

He's just tired, he tells himself. It's been a long fucking night, and getting his insides tenderized certainly didn't help. The annoyance will be back once he's in better form, probably.

(He doesn't really care whether it does or not.)

The magic does make him tense – not quite nervousness or fear, but more a wariness of the unknown. He stares hard at the fabric as the two sides of the tear weave themselves back together, tries to spot evidence of the rip.

When he spots nothing, he huffs out a breath, something approaching derisive but not quite meeting the bar. ]

Show-off.

Yeah, basically.

[ He turns to regard Peter with a grin. ] I won't be fixing your entire suit, though. Sorry.

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