[ It's been a couple weeks since the weirdness at the warehouse, and Peter and Charlie have scarcely said a word to each other.
While Charlie has been trying to figure out if there was anything remotely genuine about those strange, stolen moments where everything was wonderful and complete and right, Peter seems to have stopped giving a fuck and cranked the flirting up to eleven.
And the thing that bothers Charlie is that he's bothered by it. It's become abundantly clear that Peter Quill doesn't do feelings, and seems to have no regard for anyone else around him. It's infuriating. Charlie's asked himself again and again why he's still hung up on this asshole, and he has no answer, which only seems to annoy him more.
And so Charlie Maxwell, with his infinite well of patience and understanding, has reached his breaking point. Sitting in the corner of some dingy bar that's nearly identical to all the other dingy bars the team seems to frequent, silently seething as he watches Peter lean on the bar and flirt shamelessly with some long-legged lady with pink skin.
He refuses to watch Peter charm his way into someone else's bed again. Refuses to let him continue to ignore him.
He's not even subtle about it. He sketches a spell with quick, angry motions, drawing arched eyebrows from the others at the table who aren't too wasted to notice the glowing marks hovering in front of him.
The glass in Peter's hand, fresh from the bartender and nearly completely full, jerks out of his hand, splashing its contents all over the bar and Peter's prospects. Charlie just leans back in his chair with a look of bitter, petty satisfaction. ]
hello I'm here to be terrible
While Charlie has been trying to figure out if there was anything remotely genuine about those strange, stolen moments where everything was wonderful and complete and right, Peter seems to have stopped giving a fuck and cranked the flirting up to eleven.
And the thing that bothers Charlie is that he's bothered by it. It's become abundantly clear that Peter Quill doesn't do feelings, and seems to have no regard for anyone else around him. It's infuriating. Charlie's asked himself again and again why he's still hung up on this asshole, and he has no answer, which only seems to annoy him more.
And so Charlie Maxwell, with his infinite well of patience and understanding, has reached his breaking point. Sitting in the corner of some dingy bar that's nearly identical to all the other dingy bars the team seems to frequent, silently seething as he watches Peter lean on the bar and flirt shamelessly with some long-legged lady with pink skin.
He refuses to watch Peter charm his way into someone else's bed again. Refuses to let him continue to ignore him.
He's not even subtle about it. He sketches a spell with quick, angry motions, drawing arched eyebrows from the others at the table who aren't too wasted to notice the glowing marks hovering in front of him.
The glass in Peter's hand, fresh from the bartender and nearly completely full, jerks out of his hand, splashing its contents all over the bar and Peter's prospects. Charlie just leans back in his chair with a look of bitter, petty satisfaction. ]