[ 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. ]
Well, whatever. It'll be fine, as long as he just keeps using nicknames.
She laughs behind her hand as the bartender leaves another tumbler of some emerald-colored alcohol, and Peter can barely remember what joke it was he'd just told as he pulls the glass closer. He lifts it by the glass's lip, holds it between his fingertips. He's-- he feels really fucking distracted. He's off his game tonight, but -- was it Drulyara? -- seems to be playing along with him well enough. There's something sharp in her gaze that he finds compelling, like she knows more than she's letting on.
It also helps that she's seriously easy on the eyes. Curves in all the places he finds attractive, and-- she's blonde. He's been going for a lot of blondes, lately. He tries not to examine that too closely.
(Because he's been running from this problem the only way he knows how. He doesn't know what's happening with him, but all he can fucking think about, lately, is him, and that blissful feeling on the rooftop, that completeness. He can only think about how much he wants to experience it again, but he's terrified of what it means.
Because Peter Jason Quill does not do relationships. And he hates that some weird, alien trigger has decided on-- what? A boyfriend? A mate? A soulmate? What? -- for him, before his mind even has a chance to catch up.
Because Peter knows what love looks like. It's lonely and sad. It's a quiet house and an extra seat at the dinner table, "just in case." It's watching the night sky every time there's a meteor shower, waiting with bated breath, and heading back inside disappointed. It's reliving the same stories through rose-colored lenses. It's wasting away on sheets that aren't your own, in a room that smells of disinfectant and antiseptic, still holding out hope that they'll be there for you.
And thanks, but no thanks. Peter doesn't want any of that.)
He smiles, leans in close. Hey, Beautiful, what would you say to finding somewhere more private? You know, get to know each other on a more... personal level?
She hums thoughtfully and leans in as well. His breath hitches, and he thinks she's coming in for a kiss, but instead--
"Do you remember what my name is, darling?"
Oh, fuck.
Of course I do, and he says it with a laugh. What kinda asshole do you take me for?
"What is it, then?"
Shit, shit, shit. He ventures a guess, but says it with utmost confidence: Dahylia.
It's at that moment that the glass flies out of his hand, and the two of them yelp in surprise. The emerald liquid sloshes on the bartop, and Peter fucking seethes. He knows exactly what happened, and Lord help him, he's going to fucking throttle that guy--
Peter's distracted from his rage when the blonde harumphs and gathers up her things. "It's Preela," she tells him sharply, "you prick." And then she glares daggers at him as he sweeps out of the bar.
He apologizes to the bartender, who's glaring at him too as he wipes up the mess, and leaves him a big tip. He breathes, in and out -- once, twice, a million fucking times, -- and his hands are clenched into shaking fists as he tries to calm himself down. He is not going to let that guy get to him. Absolutely not. He is not going to give Charlie that satisfaction. He is not going to go over there and tell him off. He is not. He absolutely. Is. Not.
But then he's at Charlie's table before he realizes it, hands splayed on the surface as he leans in. ]
[ Charlie watches as Peter hesitates for just a small moment- like he's telling himself he's not going to come over here and start shit- but of course he comes over to start shit.
Charlie just glares at him, blue eyes cold, tone sharp. ]
[ His hands are clenched into fists again, nails biting into his palms, and god fucking dammit he wants to hit Charlie square in the jaw. Peter's fucking angry, angrier than he's been a long fucking time, and he's so goddamn close to flipping this table in Charlie's face. ]
Oh, shut the hell up, you fucking asshole. You know exactly what I'm talking about.
[ Peter is pissed, which is saying a whole fucking lot, considering how much it takes to make him angry. Rocket dismantling his ship for bomb parts served only as a minor annoyance. An insult to his manhood garnered only an aggravated, "Shut the fuck up." Even attempts on his life were about par for the course, by his reckoning, and served as a mild inconvenience.
But right now? He's had a hellish couple of weeks, bouncing between denial and need, feeling incomplete and having the missing piece right fucking there. But reaching for it meant accepting that this-- thing was right. That he doesn't get a choice.
So fuck that. And fuck you, Dad, for not sticking around to explain what the hell this is.
He doesn't need Charlie. He really doesn't. Alright, okay, that-- Incident on the rooftop was amazing, but surely it was a one-off. It didn't mean anything. And just to prove it, he spent every free moment flirting his way into beds. (He tries to ignore that he suddenly has a type when he was never picky before: Blonde. Charming. Sharp sense of humor.)
But none of it is enough. It's not enough.
He's angry. He's pissed. He's terrified. And he lashes out at the closest person.
That person happens to be Charlie.
So if the wizard would prefer not to be punched, he may want to dodge. ]
[ Charlie is aware that he pretty much put "punch me" on his forehead in big neon letters with that one, so when Peter takes a swing at him, he was pretty much ready for it.
He's out of his chair with surprising speed- he's a little guy, has been all this life. Little guys get picked on, no matter who their family is. He's learned from a young age how to dodge a punch- and because he's feeling angry and petty and desperate, it doesn't stop there. He ducks under Peter's oncoming fist and comes up swinging himself. ]
[ He takes a fist to the jaw, teeth clamping together hard on the inside of his cheek, and-- he doesn't know what he was expecting. Maybe that Charlie would take the hit and not retaliate? But Peter was sloppy, left himself completely open, and he stumbles back, stunned.
... That hurt.
He spits out blood and thinks, This little fucker--
He also thinks, Fuck it, as he launches himself at Charlie, hoping to tackle him to the ground. ]
[ Of all the things, Charlie was not expecting Peter to try and fucking tackle him. Peter's got him beat on sheer size, and he goes down easily, crashing painfully into a chair or two before slamming to the ground.
The next few seconds are a blur of fists and feet and half-growled, half-screamed profanities, and then Peter's presence on top of him is gone, and in the next moment, too-large hands are closing over Charlie's shoulders and hauling him to his feet. He realizes that neither Drax nor Groot has picked him up, but rather one half of the bar's pair of bouncers- the other of which must be carting Peter off.
He doesn't care enough to resist as they cart him to the door and pitch him into the street.
He's so fucking done with this whole fucked up situation. He just lays there for a moment, wondering if his life would be better if he'd never met Peter Jason Quill. (A part of him thinks, no. No it wouldn't, because you'd spend your whole life with a piece of you missing. God dammit.) ]
[ Charlie may not resist, but Peter sure as fuck does. Because he's still itching for a fight, and he needs an outlet for all this fucking frustration that's been building up and up and up, and he's bursting like a fucking volcano. He turns on the bouncer once they're out of the bar and gets in a couple of good hits before the second bouncer grabs Peter from behind, traps Peter's arms behind him. The first bouncer gets him square in the gut, and the air flies out of Peter's lungs. Another hit across the face, and Peter tastes blood. Another hit, then another, and another, and another, and the last sends Peter spinning to the ground. The bouncers laugh quietly and head back inside.
He's too dazed to do anything but stay down, forehead pressed against the ground and blood dripping from his nose; eventually his brains stop ricocheting around enough to coalesce into one thought: Maybe attacking the big, burly bouncer with giant fists wasn't his brightest idea.
His second thought is this: Today is a bad fucking day. ]
[ He hears Peter take a beating from the bouncers, and he winces with every blow. If he hadn't been so goddamn petty, then neither of them would be in this position.
Somehow that seems like a sorry excuse.
He rolls over, ignoring the aches in his back, and gets to his feet. He moves to where Peter lay, gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder. ]
One, he's too busy breathing through his aches and pains to remember that he's supposed to be pissed. And then Charlie has his hand on his shoulder, and-- there's something instantly calming about his touch, like coming inside from playing in the snow and Mom pressing a warm mug of hot chocolate in his hands. Like sinking into bed after a long day of shooting people in the face. Like landing in a storm and listening to the rain beat out a constant rhythm on the hull. Peter sighs and thinks, oh, thank god.
Two, he jerks away, rolling onto his back and aggravating every fucking bruise from the mess that was tonight, and he bites back a moan. ]
[ He felt it- a small surge of everything is okay, and then Peter jerks away. Charlie draws his hand back like he's been burned, glaring at Peter again. ]
[ He says it through gritted teeth, then turns onto his side to push himself up -- and he wonders for a moment if maybe staying horizontal was the better option. But it's too late now, and he gets himself to his feet.
He uses the back of his hand to wipe blood from his nose, but he just ends up smearing it across his face; he starts heading back to where the Milano is docked, which thankfully isn't too far away. ]
I'm going back to the ship. Do whatever the fuck you want.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ]
that drink was expensive god damn you
Shit.
What was it?
Deyreen? Daneeya? Shit.
Well, whatever. It'll be fine, as long as he just keeps using nicknames.
She laughs behind her hand as the bartender leaves another tumbler of some emerald-colored alcohol, and Peter can barely remember what joke it was he'd just told as he pulls the glass closer. He lifts it by the glass's lip, holds it between his fingertips. He's-- he feels really fucking distracted. He's off his game tonight, but -- was it Drulyara? -- seems to be playing along with him well enough. There's something sharp in her gaze that he finds compelling, like she knows more than she's letting on.
It also helps that she's seriously easy on the eyes. Curves in all the places he finds attractive, and-- she's blonde. He's been going for a lot of blondes, lately. He tries not to examine that too closely.
(Because he's been running from this problem the only way he knows how. He doesn't know what's happening with him, but all he can fucking think about, lately, is him, and that blissful feeling on the rooftop, that completeness. He can only think about how much he wants to experience it again, but he's terrified of what it means.
Because Peter Jason Quill does not do relationships. And he hates that some weird, alien trigger has decided on-- what? A boyfriend? A mate? A soulmate? What? -- for him, before his mind even has a chance to catch up.
Because Peter knows what love looks like. It's lonely and sad. It's a quiet house and an extra seat at the dinner table, "just in case." It's watching the night sky every time there's a meteor shower, waiting with bated breath, and heading back inside disappointed. It's reliving the same stories through rose-colored lenses. It's wasting away on sheets that aren't your own, in a room that smells of disinfectant and antiseptic, still holding out hope that they'll be there for you.
And thanks, but no thanks. Peter doesn't want any of that.)
He smiles, leans in close. Hey, Beautiful, what would you say to finding somewhere more private? You know, get to know each other on a more... personal level?
She hums thoughtfully and leans in as well. His breath hitches, and he thinks she's coming in for a kiss, but instead--
"Do you remember what my name is, darling?"
Oh, fuck.
Of course I do, and he says it with a laugh. What kinda asshole do you take me for?
"What is it, then?"
Shit, shit, shit. He ventures a guess, but says it with utmost confidence: Dahylia.
It's at that moment that the glass flies out of his hand, and the two of them yelp in surprise. The emerald liquid sloshes on the bartop, and Peter fucking seethes. He knows exactly what happened, and Lord help him, he's going to fucking throttle that guy--
Peter's distracted from his rage when the blonde harumphs and gathers up her things. "It's Preela," she tells him sharply, "you prick." And then she glares daggers at him as he sweeps out of the bar.
He apologizes to the bartender, who's glaring at him too as he wipes up the mess, and leaves him a big tip. He breathes, in and out -- once, twice, a million fucking times, -- and his hands are clenched into shaking fists as he tries to calm himself down. He is not going to let that guy get to him. Absolutely not. He is not going to give Charlie that satisfaction. He is not going to go over there and tell him off. He is not. He absolutely. Is. Not.
But then he's at Charlie's table before he realizes it, hands splayed on the surface as he leans in. ]
What the fuck is your problem, man?!
boo hoo cry me a river
Charlie just glares at him, blue eyes cold, tone sharp. ]
I have no idea what you're talking about.
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Oh, shut the hell up, you fucking asshole. You know exactly what I'm talking about.
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[ At this point he's pretty much daring Peter to try and hit him.
Go ahead Peter. Give it a shot. ]
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But right now? He's had a hellish couple of weeks, bouncing between denial and need, feeling incomplete and having the missing piece right fucking there. But reaching for it meant accepting that this-- thing was right. That he doesn't get a choice.
So fuck that. And fuck you, Dad, for not sticking around to explain what the hell this is.
He doesn't need Charlie. He really doesn't. Alright, okay, that-- Incident on the rooftop was amazing, but surely it was a one-off. It didn't mean anything. And just to prove it, he spent every free moment flirting his way into beds. (He tries to ignore that he suddenly has a type when he was never picky before: Blonde. Charming. Sharp sense of humor.)
But none of it is enough. It's not enough.
He's angry. He's pissed. He's terrified. And he lashes out at the closest person.
That person happens to be Charlie.
So if the wizard would prefer not to be punched, he may want to dodge. ]
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He's out of his chair with surprising speed- he's a little guy, has been all this life. Little guys get picked on, no matter who their family is. He's learned from a young age how to dodge a punch- and because he's feeling angry and petty and desperate, it doesn't stop there. He ducks under Peter's oncoming fist and comes up swinging himself. ]
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... That hurt.
He spits out blood and thinks, This little fucker--
He also thinks, Fuck it, as he launches himself at Charlie, hoping to tackle him to the ground. ]
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The next few seconds are a blur of fists and feet and half-growled, half-screamed profanities, and then Peter's presence on top of him is gone, and in the next moment, too-large hands are closing over Charlie's shoulders and hauling him to his feet. He realizes that neither Drax nor Groot has picked him up, but rather one half of the bar's pair of bouncers- the other of which must be carting Peter off.
He doesn't care enough to resist as they cart him to the door and pitch him into the street.
He's so fucking done with this whole fucked up situation. He just lays there for a moment, wondering if his life would be better if he'd never met Peter Jason Quill. (A part of him thinks, no. No it wouldn't, because you'd spend your whole life with a piece of you missing. God dammit.) ]
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He's too dazed to do anything but stay down, forehead pressed against the ground and blood dripping from his nose; eventually his brains stop ricocheting around enough to coalesce into one thought: Maybe attacking the big, burly bouncer with giant fists wasn't his brightest idea.
His second thought is this: Today is a bad fucking day. ]
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Somehow that seems like a sorry excuse.
He rolls over, ignoring the aches in his back, and gets to his feet. He moves to where Peter lay, gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder. ]
You still conscious?
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One, he's too busy breathing through his aches and pains to remember that he's supposed to be pissed. And then Charlie has his hand on his shoulder, and-- there's something instantly calming about his touch, like coming inside from playing in the snow and Mom pressing a warm mug of hot chocolate in his hands. Like sinking into bed after a long day of shooting people in the face. Like landing in a storm and listening to the rain beat out a constant rhythm on the hull. Peter sighs and thinks, oh, thank god.
Two, he jerks away, rolling onto his back and aggravating every fucking bruise from the mess that was tonight, and he bites back a moan. ]
Fuck. Don't-- don't fucking touch me, okay?
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What the hell is your problem?
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[ He says it through gritted teeth, then turns onto his side to push himself up -- and he wonders for a moment if maybe staying horizontal was the better option. But it's too late now, and he gets himself to his feet.
He uses the back of his hand to wipe blood from his nose, but he just ends up smearing it across his face; he starts heading back to where the Milano is docked, which thankfully isn't too far away. ]
I'm going back to the ship. Do whatever the fuck you want.
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He's going to follow Peter. ]
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The hell are you doing?
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I'll spell it out for you in case it escaped your notice: We. Need. To. Talk.
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Go, I dunno-- find a library or something. Bother someone else.
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What if he just kept his mouth shut as he keyed in the airlock code for the Milano?
What if he just stayed silent as he stomped toward the medbay?
What if he did that? ]
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I had no idea you were this much of a child, Peter.
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What are you so afraid of?
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