pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ 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. ]

Yeah, I know. We covered that.

[ It comes out sharp and bitter. Peter can really stop hammering in just how much he fucked this up any time now. (He supposes he has it coming. Doesn't make it any easier to sit through, though.)

His next question comes out tentatively, because he's not sure he wants to know the answer. ] So, now what?

Oh, you're askin' me now?

[ He barks that out, too, and this time his gaze snaps to him, all fire and ice and unbridled fury. ]

Figured you'd just blow me off again once you could walk without busting your stitches. Seems to be the running theme.

[ Yeah, alright. He had that coming too. ]

Fuck, Peter. I can't live like that again. I just can't, so what do you want me to say here? Obviously "sorry" doesn't cut it.

I don't give a shit what you say, Brennan.

[ Because Peter doesn't give a shit about words, for all his talk of making verbal deals and keeping his promises. Words are pliable, easily manipulated. He does it all the fucking time, twists and molds them and lets them spill from his lips with ease. ]

You're only apologizing 'cause this thing made you feel like shit.

What if it had just been me, huh? What if I was the only one who felt a damn thing while you were gone? You would've fucking stayed gone, right? You wouldn't have given a fuck, so long as you got out scot-free.

[ once again Peter's words strike him like a physical blow, stinging like a slap to the face. And it hurts all the more because it's true. He would have stayed gone, out of ignorance, perhaps, but is that really any excuse? Peter would have been the furthest thing from his mind, and if he had somehow found out just how he was suffering? He doesn't know that he's a good enough person to come back just to ease Peter's pain.

He wishes he were still unconscious, just so he wouldn't have to face this. He's spent a long time burying the ugly, selfish side of himself, and now here it is, bare and raw and staring him in the face. ]

... You're right. [ quiet at first, because this is the smallest he's ever felt. The universe dealt them a shit hand, but it's clear now that Peter got the worst of it, to be stuck with someone like him. ] You're right.

So go ahead and keep yelling. You're justified, and I don't know what to do.

[ He feels a faint flicker of regret and shame at the back of his head. He knows it’s not from himself, because he’s busy boiling over with anger – but it’s enough to douse the flames a little.

When Alec concedes, it doesn’t feel like a victory. It should, Peter thinks. He should feel like he’s won a long, bloody battle after he’s geared himself up for it all this time, but it doesn’t. It only makes the emptiness in him yawn just that much wider.

He sinks back in his seat, scrubbing his face with his hands. ]

It’s not satisfying if you let me do it.

[ He grumbles it before letting out an explosive sigh, tipping his head back against the chair’s backrest to stare at the ceiling. His hand presses small circles against his temple to stave off a growing headache. ]

I don’t have a handle on this any better than you do, Brennan.

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