[ Charlie is... well, it's safe to say he's not doing well.
Peter had still been out when Charlie came to, and while they'd bound his wrists, they'd neglected to secure his fingers. He could still cast, and then it was a simple matter of getting his and Peter's bindings off. Getting out had been another issue, with Peter down for the count and Charlie feeling rather like he'd been used as a pinata.
When one of their captors walked in and found Charlie up walking around, it had gone to hell pretty quickly. Charlie threw everything he could at them, crates and carts, everything. But while Charlie had a lot of stuff on his side, what he didn't have was the luxury of time. Spells any more complex than flinging stuff around took precious seconds he could not afford, and he was quickly overwhelmed.
He'd gotten a few good blows in, but they beat the shit out of him for it. One of them even deigned to step on his hands- the way they rest awkwardly where they're bound behind his back is a pretty sure sign that they're broken. He's lying near Peter, sucking in ragged, shallow breaths. His face is bloodied and bruised, and the rest of him isn't in very good shape either.
He makes a quiet, pained noise when Peter calls his name. Still here. Still conscious, but barely. ]
[ When he catches sight of Charlie, something cold and heavy plummets in his gut. ]
Fuck-- oh fuck--
[ Peter wants to reach out, but these fucking ropes-- He pulls at them, tries to find any sort of give, but despite his every attempt, they hold fast. ]
It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get us out of this, alright?
[ And his voice doesn't have any of the confidence it usually does, because he's terrified, and fuck, Charlie's hurt and bloodied and this is his fucking fault, he made a bad call, and shit, what the fuck is he supposed to do?
He looks around, trying to find something sharp -- a box cutter, a tool, something to get these ropes off, because at least then he can fight. (The grating in his chest says otherwise, though.) Eventually he gets himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pains shooting up his side and the throbbing in his head. ]
We're gonna be alright, but you can't fall asleep on me, okay? If I'm gonna do all the work, man, you've gotta stay awake. Okay?
[ it comes out mumbled, and he cracks one eye open to look up at the vague, blurry shape he assumes is Peter Quill ] Can't sleep anyway. You're too fucking loud.
[ He shifts a little, letting out a wince as pain shoots through his body from waaay too many places. ] Ngh. Can't move my hands.
Hey-- [ And this time he makes an effort to soften his voice, but it's still wavering, still panicked. He can't quite hide that. ]
Hey, don't move, okay? Just-- take it easy. I'll figure something out, just-- don't move.
[ Fuck. The guy's hands look like a wreck, and they're gonna have to take him to a hospital -- but first, Peter needs to get them the fuck out--
The place is a mess, and Peter has to assume that Charlie had a hand in that. There are big splotches of blue blood near the doors to the building proper, so Peter assumes Charlie must've gotten one of the guys good. Serves those assholes right; he'd be proud if he weren't scared out of his wits right now.
His gaze nearly passes over it in his haste, but sure enough, he finds it: a box cutter. He could fucking cry, he's so relieved, and he kneels down, twisting awkwardly to retrieve it. ]
Still with me, Gramps? I meant it when I said no naps.
[ He doesn't dignify that with a response, and for a moment it seems like he may have drifted off. Really, what he's trying to do is summon his magic in any capacity, but it's not working. Without the use of his hands, he can't cast. ]
Wish I could help you with that. Looks like I'm down and out.
[ He kneels beside him, sitting as close as he dares (he seriously just wants to touch him, to make sure he's there, warm and alive), afraid that actually touching him might hurt him. ]
Let me handle this. Captain's orders.
[ At least it's starting to feel like he's making headway with these stupid ropes, and that's something. If he can get his hands free, then he can figure out a way to get the fuck out of here, then they can get Charlie to a hospital, then they can have really amazing hurray-we-didn't-die sex. In that order. (Honestly, the pained sounds Charlie was making, the way he seemed to have lost consciousness -- they scare Peter in a way he seriously never thought possible, and he's more than happy with just getting to the hospital bit.)
But the best plans never survive contact with the enemy, and soon enough the doors slam open. Peter's quick to shift away, put some space between the two of them -- one of the first things Yondu taught him was to never get attached, how attachment can be turned against you like a knife. If nothing else, it's better to not show it, right?
One Kree stands alone in the doorway, and his gaze flicks between Peter and Charlie, assessing them, then settles on Charlie. Peter knows Charlie's the easier target right now, and since the Kree looks pissed, he probably wants a punching bag. But Peter's in a better place to put up a fight, so-- ]
What happened to your buddies, huh? [ The Kree bares his teeth, gaze darting to Peter. Good, that's it. ] Thought there were more of you ugly Smurf bastards. What, did they go home to mama to get their boo-boos kissed?
[ The Kree stalks toward them, and Peter saws more earnestly at the ropes, keeping his eyes locked with the alien. ]
Guessin' you're another one of those dickwads who supported Ronan, huh? Wanted him to win? Pretty pissed I vaporized his ass, right? Man, you should've seen him. Screamed like a fucking bitch, then, poof, like a cloud of smoke--
[ The Kree is snarling at this point, practically upon them, and suddenly the blade cuts through the rope. Peter yanks his wrists from their bindings, twists the box cutter in his hand and slams it into the Kree's side--
The Kree blinks, unfazed. He pulls the box cutter from his torso and drops it, and it lands on the floor with a clatter. ]
Well. [ Peter swallows hard. ] Shit.
[ He's hauled up by his throat and flung across the room, his back slamming into crates and pallets that topple around him. He has a moment to think, This was a bad idea, and before he can even get himself up on all fours, the Kree is kicking him in the ribs -- in exactly the wrong spot. Peter can't even find the breath to scream, and all he can see is white, and god, god, it fucking hurts and he just wants to curl up or barf or something but the Kree is kicking him again, and all Peter can manage is a sharp gasp.
And then the Kree is pushing him onto his back, and then there's a boot pressing down on his throat, and he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe. He tries desperately to push him off, to overbalance him, kicking and shoving and pushing, reaching out to grasp something, anything, he can use as a weapon and finding nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck, blackness is starting to edge into his vision, his chest is burning, lungs screaming for air, and god, he's going to die, isn't he? He's going to die gasping, and his strength is leaving him, arms falling to his sides, and he tries to find Charlie, because this is all Peter's fault, they're both fucking screwed because Peter can't fucking use his head, and he wants to tell him how fucking sorry he is. ]
[ Charlie watches the beginning of this exchange through a kind of haze. His head is still swimming, and while having Peter up and moving and talking to him had helped to keep him focused, helped to keep him from slipping into unconsciousness, it hardly helped the way everything hurt.
But then Peter has his hands free, an he's fighting and he's losing. And all Charlie can think is no, no, please no, not him. Not again. Not again. His heart is pounding, adrenaline making things sharpen. He strains against his bonds, even as pain shoots though his hands like lightning. He needs to move. He needs to do something, anything.
He thinks he screams Peter's name, but he can hardly tell with the way his blood is roaring in his ears. It's like a nightmare, watching in slow motion as Peter's struggles become weaker, as his arms drop uselessly.
Not again.
I won't lose him.
Not again god damn it.
And Charlie's mind reaches for a spell, hidden in the tattoos that adorn one of his shoulders. He's only used this spell once in his entire life, out of desperation, out of fear. And now it's with grim determination he casts it again, mentally flipping the switch that brings it to life.
The room hums with power, the sheer force of the magic enough to make the hair on Charlie's neck prick. Crates vibrate where they sit, shelves rattle, fixtures creak, almost in nervous anticipation-- and in the blink of an eye, all hell breaks loose.
The box cutter on the floor flies upward with starling speed, slashing at the Kree's face in brutal, violent strokes. Crates literally tear themselves apart, nails and screws and splinters of wood going driving themselves into whatever bits of soft flesh they can find. A shelving unit bends itself, the steel screaming in protest, twisting to swing itself around and slamming itself into the Kree, sending him flying. An instant later, the shelves tear themselves apart, the pieces flying across the room to wrap themselves around Peter's attacker, squeezing, crushing, until flesh rends and bones break.
A pipe tears itself from the wall, plummeting downward and skewering the Kree through he chest, pinning him to the floor. Then boxes, crates, carts, anything nearby, even the ropes from Charlie's wrists, hurtles itself at Peter's would-be murderer, burying him, bearing down on him with relentless force, crushing, smothering, impaling, until there's no life left in him. The Kree goes still, blue blood slowly oozing out from beneath the pile of things on the floor. All at once, life drops out of the objects in the room, and they still. The pile settles, and everything goes deathly quiet.
After a moment, Charlie finally rasps out, ] Peter?
[ Peter doesn't register what's happening, not at first. All he knows is that the Kree is stumbling back and Peter's finally able to heave a breath, and oh, thank fucking god. His chest burns as he coughs, broken ribs sending up lances of pain up his side, but he doesn't care, because he just needs to breathe, one breath after another. He searches out the Kree--
--sees him wrapped in metal, hears the sound of bones cracking and skin ripping and the soft plunking of small bits flying into him, watches the pipes skewer him, embedding into the concrete below, and soon there's nothing but a heap of material. Masonry. A puddle of blood drifting out on the concrete. The Kree's bones continue to crack and snap beneath the pile, flesh and organs squelching under the weight of it all, and Peter thinks he sees what remains of a hand peeking out and--
He feels bile inching up his throat and thinks he's seriously going to be sick.
But then Charlie's calling out his name, and he tears his eyes away. It takes him a few tries to get to his feet, and he stumbles his way to Charlie's side. ]
Right here. [ He doesn't bother to disguise the hoarseness of his voice, how it's barely even there, because his throat feels like shit, and he's sure to have bruises forming on his neck soon enough. ] We gotta go. Can you stand?
[ Somewhere during all that, he manged to roll himself over onto his back. It took just about every ounce of will he had just to remind himself to breathe, as magic and objects went flying around the room.
[ He only nods in return, taking Charlie's arm and hauling him to his feet as gently as he can.
Peter wants to ask a lot of questions right now, chief among which is, "What the fuck was that?" But it can wait until after they get their shit and are well on their way to a doctor. The guy had been working with two other Kree, after all, and there's no telling what level of decommissioned they were. For all Peter knows, one of them had a spontaneous nosebleed and bailed earlier, and is currently on his way back. ]
[ He's still got a pretty good adrenaline high going, at least, and once on his feet, he's unsteady for a moment or two before he manages to walk on his own.
This has been a goddamn nightmare and he just wants it to be over ]
[ Oh, good, Charlie can walk under his own power. That's seriously surprising and borderline miraculous, based on how the guy looks -- but also awesome, because Peter's ribs are on fucking fire, each breath rattling in his chest through his bruised throat, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to support both of them.
Their things are in a heap in an adjacent room, which is pretty much the best thing that's happened all day. It means Peter can get on his comm to call in the cavalry and get their asses to the emergency room or whatever the fuck this place has. And he's fucking glad he reaches Gamora out of all of them, because he doesn't want to screw around with Rocket's attitude or Drax's literalness or Groot's... Groots. Just a quick explanation, a signal sent from his helmet, and in a matter of minutes, the Milano is swooping down like some sort of fucking angel.
A little while and two check-ins to the hospital for overnight observation later, the remaining Guardians are working with the local police to pick up the trail of the two remaining Kree shitmunchers. Evidently the authorities want to save some face for letting the terrorists cause this much trouble and are comping the hospital fees -- which doesn't matter one iota to Peter, because they've got him on some seriously kickass painkillers, and everything is sort of-- floopy. Whoosh.
They also can't seem to keep the fucker in his own bed, despite everyone telling him to get his ass back in there to rest. He argues (or at least tries to argue, considering his voice is little more than a whisper) that his ass is just fine, thanks, and would they like to see it? Because it's seriously great. A lot of ladies have complimented it and some dudes, too, especially Char-- which is about when Gamora clamps her hand over his mouth and forces him back to his room.
But eventually they all just sigh, and when visiting hours are over, the Guardians just let Peter stay where he is, sitting in a chair beside Charlie's bed, half-asleep and flopped over the edge like a drunken puppy. ]
[ The whole trip to the hospital and everything that follows is little more than a blur to Charlie. They give him something for the pain and at long last, he can let unconsciousness finally take him.
He's out for the night, and most of the next day, and he's probably glad for it, considering what they have to do to set the bones in his hands. If they have some magical space-age medicine to make the healing go faster, then he'll be glad for that too.
What he isn't glad for are the dreams. He dreams about being in a shitty little apartment, further away from home than he's ever been, but not far enough apparently, because one night he wakes and there's a man standing over him with a knife. Events blur and sometimes the man is a Kree, sometimes Peter is there, pinned down, flailing, slowly going under from lack of air, and sometimes Charlie isn't fast enough to save him.
It's well into the afternoon when Charlie's eyes finally open, and for a startling moment, he doesn't know where he is. He doesn't remember if he's here because of some would-be assassin in his apartment or because he got the shit beat out of him by some alien maniac or both or---
The pieces fall slowly into place. ]
Peter?
[ God, he sounds like shit. His voice is hoarse, raw. He could probably use some water or something, but Peter takes priority. ]
[ Peter spends most of the night half-awake and wary, spends most of the next day in a daze; he sits beside Charlie's bed, despite everyone telling him to get back to his own, arms folded on the edge, chin resting on his arms.
He doesn't sleep -- not really, anyway -- because he hates hospitals. Hates the feel of them. Hates the sharp scent of disinfectant and antiseptic. Hates the sight of sharp whites and calming beiges and greens. Hates the beeping of machinery and the sight of tubes and needles.
He knows Charlie will be fine, knows he'll be able to bounce back from this, but being here, with doctors and nurses milling around, machines beeping and the smell of medicine filling his lungs -- it unsettles something deep and visceral in him, and he just. He needs to be near him, because hospitals mean quiet goodbyes and life slipping through your fingers and he needs to be near him, to rest a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat, feel him breathing, to know he's alive.
It's fucking stupid, and he knows it. But when the painkillers finally fade, he doesn't leave (because he left her side when she needed him most, and he's never going to make that mistake again.)
Charlie's voice, shitty as it is, is practically the sweetest fucking thing he's heard all day, and it snaps him out of his weird trance, staring at an invisible spot on the wall. He unfolds himself, reaches out to touch his arm (because Charlie's hands are a mess, splinted and wrapped in clear plastic mittens with some sort of warming gel that Peter doesn't know the first thing about, except that they're supposed to help speed up the healing). ]
Hey. [ And Peter's voice isn't much better, either, though the dark bruises on his throat make it little wonder why. ] How're you feeling?
[ He coughs, clears his throat, and when he speaks his voice is a little better ]
Like my head isn't attached to my body. [ whatever they've been pumping into him to help with the pain is good stuff, apparently ] But I guess it's better than the alternative.
[ His gaze drifts over Peter, coming to rest on the bruises on his throat. He frowns ] I'm sorry. I should've done something sooner.
[ He purses his lips because-- yeah, he still really wants to know what the fuck that was, what the fuck happened, but first things first.
He goes to the small table beside Charlie's bed; there's a pitcher of ice water there, and he pours out a glass before helping Charlie to sit up. He holds the glass up for him. ]
Gonna have to help me with that one. Hands are probably out of commission for the next while. [ and honestly, that thought is more than a little terrifying. What good is he without his magic?
But he tries to remain casual about it. It doesn't work. ]
[ He misses Bethany, suddenly, the little healer who spoke in 80% movie quotes. Peter would probably like her just for that, he thinks. She could fix broken bones with a touch of her hands, but sitting in a hospital? A couple of weeks for a pair of broken hands seems like a goddamn miracle, and it's not one Charlie is sure he believes in, but he nods all the same, doing as he's asked and drinking.
He must be more thirsty than he thought, because he drains the cup quickly. ]
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Peter had still been out when Charlie came to, and while they'd bound his wrists, they'd neglected to secure his fingers. He could still cast, and then it was a simple matter of getting his and Peter's bindings off. Getting out had been another issue, with Peter down for the count and Charlie feeling rather like he'd been used as a pinata.
When one of their captors walked in and found Charlie up walking around, it had gone to hell pretty quickly. Charlie threw everything he could at them, crates and carts, everything. But while Charlie had a lot of stuff on his side, what he didn't have was the luxury of time. Spells any more complex than flinging stuff around took precious seconds he could not afford, and he was quickly overwhelmed.
He'd gotten a few good blows in, but they beat the shit out of him for it. One of them even deigned to step on his hands- the way they rest awkwardly where they're bound behind his back is a pretty sure sign that they're broken. He's lying near Peter, sucking in ragged, shallow breaths. His face is bloodied and bruised, and the rest of him isn't in very good shape either.
He makes a quiet, pained noise when Peter calls his name. Still here. Still conscious, but barely. ]
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Fuck-- oh fuck--
[ Peter wants to reach out, but these fucking ropes-- He pulls at them, tries to find any sort of give, but despite his every attempt, they hold fast. ]
It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get us out of this, alright?
[ And his voice doesn't have any of the confidence it usually does, because he's terrified, and fuck, Charlie's hurt and bloodied and this is his fucking fault, he made a bad call, and shit, what the fuck is he supposed to do?
He looks around, trying to find something sharp -- a box cutter, a tool, something to get these ropes off, because at least then he can fight. (The grating in his chest says otherwise, though.) Eventually he gets himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pains shooting up his side and the throbbing in his head. ]
We're gonna be alright, but you can't fall asleep on me, okay? If I'm gonna do all the work, man, you've gotta stay awake. Okay?
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[ it comes out mumbled, and he cracks one eye open to look up at the vague, blurry shape he assumes is Peter Quill ] Can't sleep anyway. You're too fucking loud.
[ He shifts a little, letting out a wince as pain shoots through his body from waaay too many places. ] Ngh. Can't move my hands.
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Hey, don't move, okay? Just-- take it easy. I'll figure something out, just-- don't move.
[ Fuck. The guy's hands look like a wreck, and they're gonna have to take him to a hospital -- but first, Peter needs to get them the fuck out--
The place is a mess, and Peter has to assume that Charlie had a hand in that. There are big splotches of blue blood near the doors to the building proper, so Peter assumes Charlie must've gotten one of the guys good. Serves those assholes right; he'd be proud if he weren't scared out of his wits right now.
His gaze nearly passes over it in his haste, but sure enough, he finds it: a box cutter. He could fucking cry, he's so relieved, and he kneels down, twisting awkwardly to retrieve it. ]
Still with me, Gramps? I meant it when I said no naps.
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[ He wants to sound offended, but as it is it's sort of slurred and tired-sounding. He's still awake at least? ]
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Yeah, really.
[ He slides the blade up, flips it around to saw at the ropes binding his hands. ]
I know how old folks like you need their rest, but time and a place, buddy.
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[ Yep. That's it. Keep making fun of your boyfriend to get a rise out of him. ~Romance.~
Cutting the ropes, as it turns out, is slow going, and Peter bites out a curse. ]
This shit's made out of fucking titanium or something.
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Wish I could help you with that. Looks like I'm down and out.
oh my god this is so fucking long sorry
[ He kneels beside him, sitting as close as he dares (he seriously just wants to touch him, to make sure he's there, warm and alive), afraid that actually touching him might hurt him. ]
Let me handle this. Captain's orders.
[ At least it's starting to feel like he's making headway with these stupid ropes, and that's something. If he can get his hands free, then he can figure out a way to get the fuck out of here, then they can get Charlie to a hospital, then they can have really amazing hurray-we-didn't-die sex. In that order. (Honestly, the pained sounds Charlie was making, the way he seemed to have lost consciousness -- they scare Peter in a way he seriously never thought possible, and he's more than happy with just getting to the hospital bit.)
But the best plans never survive contact with the enemy, and soon enough the doors slam open. Peter's quick to shift away, put some space between the two of them -- one of the first things Yondu taught him was to never get attached, how attachment can be turned against you like a knife. If nothing else, it's better to not show it, right?
One Kree stands alone in the doorway, and his gaze flicks between Peter and Charlie, assessing them, then settles on Charlie. Peter knows Charlie's the easier target right now, and since the Kree looks pissed, he probably wants a punching bag. But Peter's in a better place to put up a fight, so-- ]
What happened to your buddies, huh? [ The Kree bares his teeth, gaze darting to Peter. Good, that's it. ] Thought there were more of you ugly Smurf bastards. What, did they go home to mama to get their boo-boos kissed?
[ The Kree stalks toward them, and Peter saws more earnestly at the ropes, keeping his eyes locked with the alien. ]
Guessin' you're another one of those dickwads who supported Ronan, huh? Wanted him to win? Pretty pissed I vaporized his ass, right? Man, you should've seen him. Screamed like a fucking bitch, then, poof, like a cloud of smoke--
[ The Kree is snarling at this point, practically upon them, and suddenly the blade cuts through the rope. Peter yanks his wrists from their bindings, twists the box cutter in his hand and slams it into the Kree's side--
The Kree blinks, unfazed. He pulls the box cutter from his torso and drops it, and it lands on the floor with a clatter. ]
Well. [ Peter swallows hard. ] Shit.
[ He's hauled up by his throat and flung across the room, his back slamming into crates and pallets that topple around him. He has a moment to think, This was a bad idea, and before he can even get himself up on all fours, the Kree is kicking him in the ribs -- in exactly the wrong spot. Peter can't even find the breath to scream, and all he can see is white, and god, god, it fucking hurts and he just wants to curl up or barf or something but the Kree is kicking him again, and all Peter can manage is a sharp gasp.
And then the Kree is pushing him onto his back, and then there's a boot pressing down on his throat, and he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe. He tries desperately to push him off, to overbalance him, kicking and shoving and pushing, reaching out to grasp something, anything, he can use as a weapon and finding nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck, blackness is starting to edge into his vision, his chest is burning, lungs screaming for air, and god, he's going to die, isn't he? He's going to die gasping, and his strength is leaving him, arms falling to his sides, and he tries to find Charlie, because this is all Peter's fault, they're both fucking screwed because Peter can't fucking use his head, and he wants to tell him how fucking sorry he is. ]
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But then Peter has his hands free, an he's fighting and he's losing. And all Charlie can think is no, no, please no, not him. Not again. Not again. His heart is pounding, adrenaline making things sharpen. He strains against his bonds, even as pain shoots though his hands like lightning. He needs to move. He needs to do something, anything.
He thinks he screams Peter's name, but he can hardly tell with the way his blood is roaring in his ears. It's like a nightmare, watching in slow motion as Peter's struggles become weaker, as his arms drop uselessly.
Not again.
I won't lose him.
Not again god damn it.
And Charlie's mind reaches for a spell, hidden in the tattoos that adorn one of his shoulders. He's only used this spell once in his entire life, out of desperation, out of fear. And now it's with grim determination he casts it again, mentally flipping the switch that brings it to life.
The room hums with power, the sheer force of the magic enough to make the hair on Charlie's neck prick. Crates vibrate where they sit, shelves rattle, fixtures creak, almost in nervous anticipation-- and in the blink of an eye, all hell breaks loose.
The box cutter on the floor flies upward with starling speed, slashing at the Kree's face in brutal, violent strokes. Crates literally tear themselves apart, nails and screws and splinters of wood going driving themselves into whatever bits of soft flesh they can find. A shelving unit bends itself, the steel screaming in protest, twisting to swing itself around and slamming itself into the Kree, sending him flying. An instant later, the shelves tear themselves apart, the pieces flying across the room to wrap themselves around Peter's attacker, squeezing, crushing, until flesh rends and bones break.
A pipe tears itself from the wall, plummeting downward and skewering the Kree through he chest, pinning him to the floor. Then boxes, crates, carts, anything nearby, even the ropes from Charlie's wrists, hurtles itself at Peter's would-be murderer, burying him, bearing down on him with relentless force, crushing, smothering, impaling, until there's no life left in him. The Kree goes still, blue blood slowly oozing out from beneath the pile of things on the floor. All at once, life drops out of the objects in the room, and they still. The pile settles, and everything goes deathly quiet.
After a moment, Charlie finally rasps out, ] Peter?
no subject
--sees him wrapped in metal, hears the sound of bones cracking and skin ripping and the soft plunking of small bits flying into him, watches the pipes skewer him, embedding into the concrete below, and soon there's nothing but a heap of material. Masonry. A puddle of blood drifting out on the concrete. The Kree's bones continue to crack and snap beneath the pile, flesh and organs squelching under the weight of it all, and Peter thinks he sees what remains of a hand peeking out and--
He feels bile inching up his throat and thinks he's seriously going to be sick.
But then Charlie's calling out his name, and he tears his eyes away. It takes him a few tries to get to his feet, and he stumbles his way to Charlie's side. ]
Right here. [ He doesn't bother to disguise the hoarseness of his voice, how it's barely even there, because his throat feels like shit, and he's sure to have bruises forming on his neck soon enough. ] We gotta go. Can you stand?
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He glances up at Peter, and manages a small nod ]
Might need a hand. Or two.
italics are hard
Peter wants to ask a lot of questions right now, chief among which is, "What the fuck was that?" But it can wait until after they get their shit and are well on their way to a doctor. The guy had been working with two other Kree, after all, and there's no telling what level of decommissioned they were. For all Peter knows, one of them had a spontaneous nosebleed and bailed earlier, and is currently on his way back. ]
Stay awake, 'kay? Can't carry you.
there there
[ He's still got a pretty good adrenaline high going, at least, and once on his feet, he's unsteady for a moment or two before he manages to walk on his own.
This has been a goddamn nightmare and he just wants it to be over ]
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Their things are in a heap in an adjacent room, which is pretty much the best thing that's happened all day. It means Peter can get on his comm to call in the cavalry and get their asses to the emergency room or whatever the fuck this place has. And he's fucking glad he reaches Gamora out of all of them, because he doesn't want to screw around with Rocket's attitude or Drax's literalness or Groot's... Groots. Just a quick explanation, a signal sent from his helmet, and in a matter of minutes, the Milano is swooping down like some sort of fucking angel.
A little while and two check-ins to the hospital for overnight observation later, the remaining Guardians are working with the local police to pick up the trail of the two remaining Kree shitmunchers. Evidently the authorities want to save some face for letting the terrorists cause this much trouble and are comping the hospital fees -- which doesn't matter one iota to Peter, because they've got him on some seriously kickass painkillers, and everything is sort of-- floopy. Whoosh.
They also can't seem to keep the fucker in his own bed, despite everyone telling him to get his ass back in there to rest. He argues (or at least tries to argue, considering his voice is little more than a whisper) that his ass is just fine, thanks, and would they like to see it? Because it's seriously great. A lot of ladies have complimented it and some dudes, too, especially Char-- which is about when Gamora clamps her hand over his mouth and forces him back to his room.
But eventually they all just sigh, and when visiting hours are over, the Guardians just let Peter stay where he is, sitting in a chair beside Charlie's bed, half-asleep and flopped over the edge like a drunken puppy. ]
no subject
He's out for the night, and most of the next day, and he's probably glad for it, considering what they have to do to set the bones in his hands. If they have some magical space-age medicine to make the healing go faster, then he'll be glad for that too.
What he isn't glad for are the dreams. He dreams about being in a shitty little apartment, further away from home than he's ever been, but not far enough apparently, because one night he wakes and there's a man standing over him with a knife. Events blur and sometimes the man is a Kree, sometimes Peter is there, pinned down, flailing, slowly going under from lack of air, and sometimes Charlie isn't fast enough to save him.
It's well into the afternoon when Charlie's eyes finally open, and for a startling moment, he doesn't know where he is. He doesn't remember if he's here because of some would-be assassin in his apartment or because he got the shit beat out of him by some alien maniac or both or---
The pieces fall slowly into place. ]
Peter?
[ God, he sounds like shit. His voice is hoarse, raw. He could probably use some water or something, but Peter takes priority. ]
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He doesn't sleep -- not really, anyway -- because he hates hospitals. Hates the feel of them. Hates the sharp scent of disinfectant and antiseptic. Hates the sight of sharp whites and calming beiges and greens. Hates the beeping of machinery and the sight of tubes and needles.
He knows Charlie will be fine, knows he'll be able to bounce back from this, but being here, with doctors and nurses milling around, machines beeping and the smell of medicine filling his lungs -- it unsettles something deep and visceral in him, and he just. He needs to be near him, because hospitals mean quiet goodbyes and life slipping through your fingers and he needs to be near him, to rest a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat, feel him breathing, to know he's alive.
It's fucking stupid, and he knows it. But when the painkillers finally fade, he doesn't leave (because he left her side when she needed him most, and he's never going to make that mistake again.)
Charlie's voice, shitty as it is, is practically the sweetest fucking thing he's heard all day, and it snaps him out of his weird trance, staring at an invisible spot on the wall. He unfolds himself, reaches out to touch his arm (because Charlie's hands are a mess, splinted and wrapped in clear plastic mittens with some sort of warming gel that Peter doesn't know the first thing about, except that they're supposed to help speed up the healing). ]
Hey. [ And Peter's voice isn't much better, either, though the dark bruises on his throat make it little wonder why. ] How're you feeling?
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Like my head isn't attached to my body. [ whatever they've been pumping into him to help with the pain is good stuff, apparently ] But I guess it's better than the alternative.
[ His gaze drifts over Peter, coming to rest on the bruises on his throat. He frowns ] I'm sorry. I should've done something sooner.
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He goes to the small table beside Charlie's bed; there's a pitcher of ice water there, and he pours out a glass before helping Charlie to sit up. He holds the glass up for him. ]
Drink this. You should like shit.
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But he tries to remain casual about it. It doesn't work. ]
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(And Peter wants to touch him anyway, because who wouldn't, seriously? That, and he needs that comfort of him being there, alive and warm.) ]
Couple of weeks, they said. Maybe three, to be on the safe side. The slime they've got you soaking in is supposed to help.
Now, here. [ Peter brings the cup to Charlie's lips, tipping it gently. ] Drink, okay?
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He must be more thirsty than he thought, because he drains the cup quickly. ]
Thanks.
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[ For Peter's part, he was ready to go the moment the drugs wore off.
He pours another glass or water, just in case. ]
There's more if you want it.
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What about you? You look like hell.
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