pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ Alec disappears.

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. ]

[ He supposes they should have seen it coming. Cramped on a small ship as they were, contact of some kind was inevitable, and, ironically, in trying not to think about one another or the connection they were forced to share, they ended up thinking about it more. And the universe found ways to tug them together, ever since they gave that bit of ground at the banquet.

Alec nearly left when he realized the truth of the events of that night- that he had acted because Peter was in danger, that the strange warm and content feeling was because Peter was near- but he had convinced himself that if they kept their distance there was no way it could get worse.

It wasn't a very convincing lie, but he stuck it out for a little bit anyway.

Oddly, he kept drifting back to that night after the banquet, not because that was where the whole mess started, but because that was the first time he and Peter actually managed to get along. He found himself thinking that is was a shame, this whole soulmate thing hanging over their heads, glinting and sharp like a blade. If not for that, they could have probably been friends.

And some small part of him said, If friends, then why not lovers? Why not more? In the end, that little voice was enough to scare him into vanishing.

He took the info, he felt like shit screwing the Guardians over like that because they had done nothing to deserve it, but he needed it. He needed to see this job through to the end. As soon as the Milano docked, Alec was gone, hitching a ride back to the little station where they had left his ship and getting as far away as he could.

At first, things were fine, and Alec allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction. His dad had been fine, his mother... presumably had been fine, and if that band of color on his old man's finger really did tie them together, then it obviously hadn't meant much at all. People just like to romanticize things.

Then the restlessness started creeping in. Keeping him up at night while he tossed and turned in his bunk, fidgeted over his consoles and robbed him of his ability to truly concentrate. It came and went like the tide, and each time seemed worse than the last. It crawled under his skin, prickling, gnawing, insistent, until it had eaten away a gaping hole in his chest, leaving him hollow and sick. On his truly bad days, he honestly felt like half a person, little more than a husk, and he wished to God he could make it go away. He tried slamming his barriers down, shutting it out the same way he had shut Quill out, but this hollow thing that had taken refuge in him was not so easily turned away.

More than once he entertained the thought of seeking out the Guardians, of tracking down Peter just so make it stop, please make it stop, but the prospect of being inexorably tied to someone whether he wants to be or not was too big, too scary, and he told himself he'll be fine. He just has to get used to it. The longer they're apart, the more their bond will weaken and soon things will be back to normal.

(Somehow, he knows that they won't.)

Alec continued working towards Grun, but his moods, his health, and that ever-present loneliness made him sloppy. He didn't cover his tracks as well as he would have normally, and one day someone found him. There were two of them, hulking men, one red and one green, like Christmas, and they approached him in the middle of some seedy bar on a dingy station. They said they work for a rival of Grun's. They said they know Alec has information on him. They made him an offer- work for their boss, ruin Grun and his empire. But Alec doesn't work for assholes just to screw other assholes over, and he told them to fuck right off.

They took him away after that. Even with all his tricks, the gaping hole in him left him off his game, and he woke up in a dark room with Gumby and Pokey looking very ready to cause him some hurt if he didn't tell them what he knew. He didn't, and they did.

His Enhancements helped him weather the first few days, and his captors were shocked when the Terran didn't crumple like aluminum foil under their beatings, so they stepped up their game. Stupid, to play that card so soon Alec realized, but by then it was too late. They nearly killed him on the day his magical stamina gave out and his Enhancements crumbled, but they manged to reel themselves in when they realized that something had changed and their victim was not as sturdy as he had been.

They eased off after that. Had to take a break because Alec was in a bad way.

He doesn't really remember how long ago that was. Consciousness comes and goes, though they had bandaged him up, set his bones and put him on the course to recovery just enough so that he might still be useful to him. Underneath the pain and the haze, that wrongness still remains, still gnaws at him every chance it gets, because life wasn't unfair enough already.

Maybe he's finally lost it, because he swears it's suddenly not as bad as it used to be. It eases by degrees, and it's only when he hears the commotion outside the little medbay-slash-prison cell where they have him held that he has the vague hope that maybe it's Peter out there.

And isn't that weird? That he hopes to see the guy again, where before they wanted nothing to do with one another. He could explore that feeling, but he's too tired and in too much pain to really bother. ]

[ Peter takes a moment to catch his breath, entire body shaking with the strain, with the panic and rage boiling in his blood.

Brennan. Fucking Brennan. I'll murder him my-fucking-self.

The man beneath him is little more than meat, practically unrecognizable. Green skin and raw hamburger for a face. Peter's fury had blinded him when he saw this guy. Doesn't know why. Just knows that there was hell to pay, and this man had the bill. ]

Found him.

[ This, spoken into his comm, his voice low and dark and wavering with his anger. Someone asks, "Are you sure?" though he doesn't know who. Doesn't really care, either. Except that he snaps back, ]

Positive.

[ There's blood on Peter's hands, on his guns, and he gives them a hasty wipe on the dead man's shirt before he lurches to his feet. A door. A single fucking door keeping him from Brennan. A pad for a hand print. A quick glance at the half dozen men littering the floor. He could drag them over, one by one. Hope one of them has the magic prints. Hope they still have enough residual heat in them to activate the key.

Then he decides, I don't have fucking time for this, and fires off a few bolts of lightning into the mechanism.

It fizzes. Sizzles. Shoots out sparks. And then, because he knows that alone isn't enough to do it (it never works like it does in the movies), Peter fires another dozen shots at the lock itself – fire, this time, over and over and fucking over until the metal is red and heated through.

Guns holstered. Deep breath.

The door slams against the wall as Peter shoulders through it. The red eyes of his mask concealing the way his eyes blaze, daring anyone else to come at him. Nothing. Silence.

Save for a quiet, rattling breath, and Peter's gaze falls on the form in the bed, broken and bruised and— ]

Brennan.

[ This, on a ragged exhale, and he darts forward, holstering his guns. ]

Brennan, you goddamn asshole.

[ This, snarled out, as his hands hover uncertainly. Fuck, he looks terrible. If it weren't for the connection, if it weren't for the fact that this looked like some kind of medbay, Peter would almost think the guy was actually fucking dead. His rage threatens to boil over again, coats his vision in red. Only someone's voice in his ear confirming they've got an exit manages to drag him out of the haze.

He hits the trigger for his mask, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek as it retracts. ]

Wake up, you bastard. [ Anger to mask the fear. An old tactic, but an effective one. ] If you die here, I'll kill you.

[ The commotion rings in his ears, and he vaguely thinks it's making his head hurt, but so much of him hurts that it's hard to tell.

But that voice cuts through the haze and he cracks one eye open- mostly because the other one is swollen shut and this is all he can do. It takes a few seconds for the blurry form hovering over him to finally take shape and-- well, what do you know? It is Peter.

Something in him breathes a sigh of relief, that hollow feeling easing as it does, but quick on its heels is anger and panic. The strength of it is intense, and Alec sucks in a breath through his teeth. ]

Calm down, asshole. You're freaking me out.

[ It comes out a little slurred but the thought is there. ]

Edited 2016-11-08 15:40 (UTC)

I’m freaking you out?

[ A few shades higher than normal, completely incredulous, and for a second that urge to punch this goddamn bastard in his already fucked up face makes his fist clench.

But, no. He’s not pissed at Brennan. (Well, he is, but that’s not important right now.) He takes a deep breath, holds it in his lungs for a few seconds, then lets it out on a slow exhale. After that, he’s slightly calmer. Not a lot, considering his hands still shake, and fury still licks up his throat, but enough. ]

We’re on our way out. [ He takes in the state of Alec, not bothering to hide his grimace. No condition to walk, he figures. ]

I’m calling Drax. He’ll have to carry you.

Works f'me.

[ His eyes- well, eye- slips shut again, and for a second it seems like he's drifted off, then the corner of his mouth twitches upwards, oh so slightly. ]

Can't say I was expecting a rescue.

[ As he gets in touch with his team again, Peter hangs onto their connection like a lifeline, that mounting headache bursting at his temples (and that’s strange, considering how long he had spent ignoring it, slamming down barriers to keep that connection from taking hold). It’s the only reason why he doesn’t immediately panic when Alec seems to slip away.

Still feels a quick flare of concern, though. Something icy that grips his lungs, but it melts away as soon as Drax confirms he’s on his way. ]

Can’t say I was expecting to mount one, either.

[ The words sound like they’re dragged from his lips, gruff and slow. He steps forward again, hand hovering over Alec’s arm. ]

Jesus, they did a number on you.

[ He'd like to laugh at just how obvious that statement is, but he can't quite muster the energy. ]

Yeah. Got sloppy. My fault.

[ He opens his eyes again, sees Peter standing there, worry on his face and hand hovering over his arm like he's not quite sure what to do. On impulse, Alec twitches his hand out, as much as the splint they have his arm in will allow, brushing his fingers over Peter's open palm. ] Sorry.

[ He feels a flash of comfort, of warmth, at the contact, feels something sing in him, but the second is short-lived, due in no small part to the brevity of the touch and to the molten fury still churning in his gut.

He grits out, ] You should be. [ but it doesn’t pack quite the punch he intends it to.

And the victory is hollow as hell, considering Alec is already mostly broken. And Christ, Peter hates seeing the people he (kind of, sort of, maybe just barely a little) likes hurt, but seeing Alec like this makes something tighten around his throat, makes his hands shake and his heart thud against his ribs.

Peter licks his lips, staring down at Alec’s arm, tries to remember where that invisible, red band is before putting his hand atop it. Stands to reason it might help, he supposes, like finding a weak point in armor and pressing the advantage. ]

If you think a shitty apology like that's gonna save you from me kickin' your ass, you're dead wrong.

[ Something about Peter's presence is a balm, soothing and warm, and taking the worst of the bite out of the pain of his injuries. He just basks in it, in their closeness and connection. He's gone so long without, he feels like a starving man who's been offered a feast, and in the moment he doesn't have the presence of mind to deny how much he wants this. ]

Figured as much. Just wait until I heal up, please.

[ A beat. ] We really can't escape from this, can we?

[ Peter stays silent, his thumb smoothing over the bruised patch of skin where his hand rests. Partially because he’s taking the time to let that gaping hole in his chest fill up, slowly but surely, filling with warmth, making him finally feel like a person again. But mostly because he doesn’t have an answer.

Drax’s appearance in the doorway saves him from having to answer, though, and he feels the other man’s gaze on him, the weight of it. He must have passed the trail of bodies Peter had left in his wake, and even now, he stands beside the Jolly Green Giant, whose face Peter turned to pulp just minutes ago. Those ice blue eyes of his flick down to Peter’s hand, still atop Alec’s arm, to Alec’s various injuries, then back to Peter.

That knowing in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, and Peter finds himself bristling, those lingering vestiges of denial stirred from the mess of his emotions. Reluctantly, he steps away, feels the air punched from his lungs when that connection snaps. He waves Drax forward sharply, impatiently. ]

Grab him. [ Rough. Clipped. Professional. His hand brushes across the trigger for his helmet, the blue light filling his vision and leaving metal in its wake. He pulls his guns from their holsters, gives them a brief, nervous spin, because that bloodlust is crawling its way back up his throat, that need to make someone pay for what they’ve done. ]

I’ll cover you.

[ After that, Peter lets himself fall back into that red haze. Shooting and firing and leaving a bloody, body-strewn path to their escape route. Wasting precious seconds by glancing over his shoulder, gaze snapping to Brennan as if part of him worries he’ll disappear, even though something in him is fixed on his presence, spins and tugs like a compass needle pointing at magnetic north. It’s wildly disorienting, as much as it is comforting, but Peter needs the visual confirmation, all the same.

They escape, because of course they do. They’re the motherfucking Guardians of the Galaxy. The trip to the closest medical facility is spent in tense silence. Peter takes up watch by Alec’s side, stares into the middle space between them. He fights when they take Alec away to perform something better than slapdash, stopgap medicine on him, something instinctive and visceral raging inside him. Gamora grabs him by both wrists and fucking stares him down until he calms.

(Thank God for Gamora, he thinks later. And thank God she didn’t see fit to knock him the fuck out for being such a shit.)

And hours later, Peter’s skin itches for an entirely new reason. Hospitals. The quiet hum of conversation. Distant sobs and moans muffled by multiple walls and doors. The soft, insistent beeping and whirring of machinery. The crackling voices over the PA system. The overwhelming smell of disinfectant and medicine.

It makes him want to throw up.

But he situates himself at Alec’s bedside, jacket thrown over the back of the chair in which he now sits. He rests his cheek against the crook of his arm, folded over the edge of the mattress. His free hand rests against the invisible band on Alec’s arm (or his closest approximation of it; his memory of that brief second in which Alec showed it off was a little muddled). Nighttime on the station, and well past visiting hours, but Drax stands outside the door, scaring off anyone who would express any reservations with his existence.

And so he sits. Waits. Basks in the feeling of being whole after God knows how fucking long. And swallows down that overwhelming urge to beat the shit out of Alec for all of it. ]

[ Alec doesn't recall much of their escape, or much of what happens afterward. He lost consciousness at some point, which was probably a small blessing, considering that he got jostled once or twice. (Drax tried, he really did.)

What he does recall is Peter. His presence like a warm glow, always there, his rage and worry like a storm, crashing around him, but that was okay because at least he was here.

He comes to at some point, staring at yet another unfamiliar ceiling, but his eyes flick to Peter, his hand on Alec's arm, and he feels himself smile before drifting off again. (He was so scared of being connected, but they already were. They already had been, and Alec can't live his life as half a person. He's not that strong.)

When he wakes again, it's with a little more clarity, and he turns his gaze quietly to Peter, still there, hand still on his arm, and says softly, ]

That's got to be hell on your back.

[ He snaps out of his daze when Alec stirs, and a cool wave of relief flows through him at the sight of him, finally awake and coherent.

Peter snorts, though, once he speaks, lifting his head to level an unimpressed look his way. ]

How is that every time you talk, you manage to annoy me?

[ Like. That should be impossible, right? Considering who Peter is, how he is.

But he sits up all the same, joints popping a little as he rolls out his shoulders, glaring silently at Brennan as if to dare him to say something. He maintains that point of contact, though. That doesn’t seem to be changing any time soon.

His expression softens a touch, eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turning down minutely. ]

How do you feel?

[ He gives a little tilt of his head, a slight movement of his shoulders, as if to say I have no idea what you're talking about. ]

Kinda floaty, which means they've got me on the good stuff.

... Thank you. For pulling me out of there.

[ He snorts derisively, hands twitching against Alec’s arm – considering breaking the contact, not quite able to bring himself to do it. Not yet. That little flare of anger, licking at the back of his sternum. ]

Yeah, well, unlike some people, [ And the sharpness returns to his voice, a razor edge he’s been bitterly honing since Alec left. He’s only had a few lessons in knife-wielding from Drax, but he knows enough to inflict damage. ] I don’t leave my teammates behind.

[ Peter's words have the intended effect, and when coupled with that lick of anger, they cut into Alec like a heated blade. He glances away for a second.

He knows full well how badly he fucked up. How, in the end, he really is no better than his mother. ]

I'm sorry. [ It comes out quiet, with no hint of his usual swagger or sarcasm. ] This was too big for me. Too final, and I couldn't handle it.

[ Another twitch, but this time he tears his hand away. The change leaves him reeling, like yanking the plug on a television and being left with the high-pitched whine of its silence.

He recovers, though, prepared as he was for the difference (though no less prepared for the loss that rings through him, clear as a bell), and his anger powers him through the rest of the way. ]

Oh, boo-hoo.

[ He might have picked up a few phrasings in his time spent with Rocket. ]

‘Cause you were the only one scared shitless by this thing. ‘Cause you were the only one who didn’t want this.

[ He makes a disgusted noise at the back of his throat, flopping back to slouch in his chair. He scrubs his face with his hands, using them to hide his grimace. ]

Fuck off, man.

[ Alec was not prepared, and the sudden loss of contact strikes him physically. He flinches, letting out a small gasp, and it's another handful of seconds before he can even collect his thoughts enough to speak. ]

I know, okay? I fucking know. But don't sit there and act like you didn't want me gone.

Edited 2016-11-09 01:07 (UTC)

Of course I wanted you gone.

[ Snapped back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He should feel guilty, probably, for having this conversation while Alec is high on painkillers, for doing this right after he’s been beaten half to hell by some petty crooks, but he doesn’t. Rage and frustration have been nesting in his gut for a long time, now, and apparently they’ve seen fit to poke their heads out. ]

But I didn’t make you leave, did I? I could’ve booted you out. I could’ve had Drax chuck you from the airlock. I could’ve done a lot of things to make sure you never stepped foot back on my ship, but I didn’t, did I?

[ He jabs a finger at him, fire in his eyes, fury burning a path up his throat. ]

‘Cause I’ve seen what fucking happens, you goddamn prick. I knew what distance did to people like us. And I wanted that a whole lot less than I wanted this. [ A sharp wave of his hand, gesturing between the two of them. ]

[ Alec wants to get out of this goddamn bed and punch Peter right in the face, but his injuries and the medicine in his veins make him sluggish, make his whole body feel oddly detached. At best, he manages to clench a fist. ]

So why didn't you say something? I can't read your fucking mind. I don't know how this works, so excuse me for panicking.

You seriously didn't know? Like, at all?

[ Because Peter finds that extremely difficult to believe. ]

I knew. I'd heard, anyway.

[ He shrugs, the motion sluggish and awkward, and his gaze falls to his lap. ] My old man had a mark, but my mom never stuck around. He never seemed bothered by it. Figured all that talk was just talk.

[ He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze flitting off to the far wall. ]

Well, it's not.

[ And for a long second, that seems to be about all he's willing to offer. But after that time passes, he continues, slowly, ]

Mom had one. Just here.

[ He drags a finger across his wrist. ]

Good ol' dad left us before I was born. Fucked off who knows where. Left her behind to deal with the consequences.

[ He scowls as he remembers how she looked on those days. How it felt on his worst. ]

Did you even feel anything? Or was that just on me, too?

[ He just looks at Peter for a very long moment, like he's having to reevaluate him all over again. More than anything, he's left wondering why the universe thought it was such a good idea to put two people this damaged together. ]

... Miserable doesn't even begin to describe it.

[ He snorts, a bitter taste in his mouth. He should feel vindicated, he thinks. He should feel glad that he wasn't the only one who had to suffer through this shit.

Instead, he only feels pissed.

Because if Alec felt it too, that emptiness, that sickness, then apparently he felt it was worth experiencing that than dealing with Peter. Which was a completely new fucking level of insulting.

Or else he didn't feel it nearly as bad as he's letting on. Didn't feel it nearly as keenly as Peter, who felt like he would shake apart at the seams on the worst days. Like that hollowness would consume him entirely and crack him open. He might have decided it was just bearable enough to keep shutting Peter out. Which is somehow even worse. A sort of unfair that just cements everything Peter knows about the universe. ]

God, you're an asshole.

[ He spits it out, still avoiding his gaze. ]

will i ever learn brevity. the answer is no.

that's okay i did the same thing

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