[ 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. ]
[ He smiles a little, reaching out a hand to rest on Charlie's arm, just above where hey have the gloves cinched in place -- if for no other reason to reassure himself that he's there. And if he's watching Charlie a little too intently, then he has no idea he's doing it. ]
Been busy. [ Mostly because they had a destination in mind, and needed a whole lot of money to get there. Now that that's out of the picture, though, they've got all the time in the world. ]
Dinner. Dancing. Making fun of people with no coordination.
[ That earns him a half-hearted glare. His freaky alien side is a sensitive topic, thanks. ]
Just that good, I guess. [ And his thumb starts tracing idle designs on Charlie's arm (because Peter is a tactile sort of person and he just seriously needs this right now). ]
... So. [ He coughs quietly into the crook of his elbow, his injured ribs giving a slight twinge. ] That was scary as fuck.
[ Well, no, that last bit was-- especially terrifying, but mostly because of the oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm going to die, I'm going to die, and I couldn't save him and--
No, no need to think about that. First things first. ]
What-- at the end, when everything...? [ Ah, yes. Words. ]
[ -- and it was sort of gross, mostly the squelching. He doesn't envy the person who has to clean up that mess. He takes a breath and looks up at him. ]
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--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. ]
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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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Thanks, man. Real nice.
By the way? You? [ He clicks his tongue and winks. ] Million bucks.
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Not so bad. Still got your personality.
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Hell, it's good to be doing anything with Peter.
He sighs, leaning back, eyes cast at the ceiling ]
Man, how come we never go anywhere nice?
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Been busy. [ Mostly because they had a destination in mind, and needed a whole lot of money to get there. Now that that's out of the picture, though, they've got all the time in the world. ]
Dinner. Dancing. Making fun of people with no coordination.
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Are you sure your alien half doesn't give you freaky mind-reading powers? Because I was thinking the same thing.
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Just that good, I guess. [ And his thumb starts tracing idle designs on Charlie's arm (because Peter is a tactile sort of person and he just seriously needs this right now). ]
... So. [ He coughs quietly into the crook of his elbow, his injured ribs giving a slight twinge. ] That was scary as fuck.
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Do you mean the whole thing or mostly just the last part?
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[ Well, no, that last bit was-- especially terrifying, but mostly because of the oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm going to die, I'm going to die, and I couldn't save him and--
No, no need to think about that. First things first. ]
What-- at the end, when everything...? [ Ah, yes. Words. ]
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[ -- and it was sort of gross, mostly the squelching. He doesn't envy the person who has to clean up that mess. He takes a breath and looks up at him. ]
What was it?
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