[ He sticks it out with Charlie longer than he means to.
It was a matter of practicality, at first; a matter of getting what he was owed – because even if the first pass at rescuing Charlie had been completely happenstance, the second time had been deliberate, borne of the compassion his old team had tried so hard to squash out of him. Escaping from the town, teaching Charlie how to survive, showing him the sort of tricks that existed in every conman’s arsenal – those had been purposeful, too. And maybe he taught Charlie some of the exact wrong lessons, but Peter gave him the means to survive, to slither his way out of the hands reaching out for him.
And gods, there were a lot of hands reaching for the guy.
Two weeks turn into months, and while Peter doesn’t quite give up his distrust of magic, he at least gives up his distrust of Charlie. They get along, which surprises him (and surprises Charlie, if he had to wager a guess), though Peter never gave too much of himself away. Kept his secrets to himself – especially the Mark curling between his shoulder blades, licking up his neck. (If anyone would know what to do about that stupid thing, it probably would have been Charlie; but habit kept Peter from mentioning it.)
Still, Peter quietly admits that traveling together isn’t quite as terrible as it had initially seemed. They dodge the knights in silver armor, the mercenaries, the retainers sent with manipulative messages from Charlie’s worried parents. At three months, Peter begins to wonder what lengths the Maxwells wouldn’t go to if it meant regaining their son.
But Charlie decides enough is enough, and after six months, they fake his death. They put on show worthy of a standing ovation and four encores, and when it’s over, it’s— quiet.
They breathe.
And Charlie leaves.
Six months ago, Peter would have never expected to feel so— hollow when Charlie finally decides to leave. It’s been a while since he’s traveled with anyone, had anyone to watch his back like Charlie has watched his. On a practical level, Charlie’s magic has gotten them out of more than a few binds, saved their asses when nothing else could. And on a personal level, Charlie is just— so fucking different than anyone Peter’s ever met.
He likes him.
Peter nearly asks the guy to reconsider, to stick it out; he nearly tells Charlie that he’s still welcome along, but—
They lead different lives. Peter’s life is already hectic, given his line of work, even without the near constant excitement of escaping the men sent after Charlie at every turn. It’s hardly a peaceful life, and he’s not entirely surprised when Charlie decides to put an end to their partnership, such as it is.
Even with the solemn sort of promise Charlie gives him to magically appear whenever Peter makes use of the whistle, Peter expects this is the end. He’s never been particularly good with goodbyes, so as they part, as they tell each other to stay out of trouble, Peter just grins around the emptiness widening in his chest and asks, “Don’t I always?”
A year and a half passes, and Peter crashes through the damp wood of a door, tumbles into the empty room, bangs his hands and knees against the unyielding floor. Still furnished, he notices distantly, though everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. If he cared enough to guess, he’d wager this was a family taken by sickness, the cottage boarded up and left to rot. He kicks out, slamming the door shut behind him, and drags himself further into the room.
It took years, but some of the members of his old crew finally caught up with him. Couldn’t quite forgive him for leaving the team – especially since his version of quitting had resulted in the deaths of more than a few of them. Not his fault, he had said, as they crowded him into the corner of the tavern. They should’ve paid more attention on the job; he couldn’t be blamed if they didn’t see the arcane traps for themselves.
Only the team didn’t appreciate the cavalier attitude and tried to beat the shit out of him.
But Peter’s been dodging them for years, has been wriggling his way out of their hands for decades since they took him, with something that’s equal parts skill and luck. He escapes the tavern with only a little trouble and runs after that. He nearly gets away unscathed.
Nearly.
Except Yondu steps out – Yondu, who taught Peter everything he knows, including archery. With hardly a thought, he sends an arrow straight into Peter’s back. It staggers him, nearly sends him to the ground then and there, but Peter recovers his footing, rounds the corner, and dodges out of sight.
So here he is now, with blood crawling around the side of his shirt, dripping quietly onto the wooden floor as he forces himself to sit up. He heaves in desperate, pained breaths, sweat beading and dripping down the paling skin of his forehead and neck. The shaft of the arrow still protrudes from his back, and while he gropes for it, he can’t quite get a hold of it to pull it out, not without a near blinding pulse of pain that leaves him gasping. He has the brief, dizzying realization that it’s killing him, the sharp edge of the arrow head slicing him from the inside, letting blood drain out of him.
He probably left a trail. The old crew will probably pick up on it. If the arrow doesn’t kill him – a single, fucking arrow – they almost certainly will.
Peter probably shouldn’t laugh the way he does, panicked and near hysterical, but there it is.
His satchel lands heavily into the space between his legs, and he rummages through with a bloodied hands for something to use for bandages and dressing, something to help him get a hold of the arrow in his back. The mid-afternoon light that filters in through the boarded windows catches on something in his bag, and Peter pauses, shoves his things aside to examine it. Another breathless laugh bubbles out of him when he realizes what it is: the fucking whistle.
He lifts it out with trembling fingers, turns it over in his hands. He always figured the enchantment wouldn’t actually work, in spite of how earnestly Charlie had folded Peter’s hand over it. Like giving sweets to a child to keep him from crying. And more than that, he never had need of it. His unnatural sort of luck had always gotten him out of most trouble, albeit clumsily, and a month or two after they parted ways, Peter had forgotten about Charlie’s promise.
What the hell could it hurt to try? Peter thinks. He brings the whistle to his lips, and when he blows on it— he hears nothing, the sound carried away to someone else’s ears, though he hardly realizes that; in fact, he thinks bitterly, Even the whistle doesn’t fucking work, and as much as he wants to, he doesn’t hurl it away. He tucks it carefully into his bag.
He always did like his keepsakes.
Another minute or two passes in silence. Peter lets out self-deprecating huff of a laugh and moves on, pulls out some old rags, tries to formulate some plan on how to get himself out of this mess—
And then there’s someone else in the room with him.
He doesn’t think, just moves, yanks his dagger from its place at his belt, points its tip at the new threat as he tries to scramble back.
The dagger nearly falls from boneless fingers when he realizes who he’s staring at, face going slack with the shock of it.
no subject
It was a matter of practicality, at first; a matter of getting what he was owed – because even if the first pass at rescuing Charlie had been completely happenstance, the second time had been deliberate, borne of the compassion his old team had tried so hard to squash out of him. Escaping from the town, teaching Charlie how to survive, showing him the sort of tricks that existed in every conman’s arsenal – those had been purposeful, too. And maybe he taught Charlie some of the exact wrong lessons, but Peter gave him the means to survive, to slither his way out of the hands reaching out for him.
And gods, there were a lot of hands reaching for the guy.
Two weeks turn into months, and while Peter doesn’t quite give up his distrust of magic, he at least gives up his distrust of Charlie. They get along, which surprises him (and surprises Charlie, if he had to wager a guess), though Peter never gave too much of himself away. Kept his secrets to himself – especially the Mark curling between his shoulder blades, licking up his neck. (If anyone would know what to do about that stupid thing, it probably would have been Charlie; but habit kept Peter from mentioning it.)
Still, Peter quietly admits that traveling together isn’t quite as terrible as it had initially seemed. They dodge the knights in silver armor, the mercenaries, the retainers sent with manipulative messages from Charlie’s worried parents. At three months, Peter begins to wonder what lengths the Maxwells wouldn’t go to if it meant regaining their son.
But Charlie decides enough is enough, and after six months, they fake his death. They put on show worthy of a standing ovation and four encores, and when it’s over, it’s— quiet.
They breathe.
And Charlie leaves.
Six months ago, Peter would have never expected to feel so— hollow when Charlie finally decides to leave. It’s been a while since he’s traveled with anyone, had anyone to watch his back like Charlie has watched his. On a practical level, Charlie’s magic has gotten them out of more than a few binds, saved their asses when nothing else could. And on a personal level, Charlie is just— so fucking different than anyone Peter’s ever met.
He likes him.
Peter nearly asks the guy to reconsider, to stick it out; he nearly tells Charlie that he’s still welcome along, but—
They lead different lives. Peter’s life is already hectic, given his line of work, even without the near constant excitement of escaping the men sent after Charlie at every turn. It’s hardly a peaceful life, and he’s not entirely surprised when Charlie decides to put an end to their partnership, such as it is.
Even with the solemn sort of promise Charlie gives him to magically appear whenever Peter makes use of the whistle, Peter expects this is the end. He’s never been particularly good with goodbyes, so as they part, as they tell each other to stay out of trouble, Peter just grins around the emptiness widening in his chest and asks, “Don’t I always?”
A year and a half passes, and Peter crashes through the damp wood of a door, tumbles into the empty room, bangs his hands and knees against the unyielding floor. Still furnished, he notices distantly, though everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. If he cared enough to guess, he’d wager this was a family taken by sickness, the cottage boarded up and left to rot. He kicks out, slamming the door shut behind him, and drags himself further into the room.
It took years, but some of the members of his old crew finally caught up with him. Couldn’t quite forgive him for leaving the team – especially since his version of quitting had resulted in the deaths of more than a few of them. Not his fault, he had said, as they crowded him into the corner of the tavern. They should’ve paid more attention on the job; he couldn’t be blamed if they didn’t see the arcane traps for themselves.
Only the team didn’t appreciate the cavalier attitude and tried to beat the shit out of him.
But Peter’s been dodging them for years, has been wriggling his way out of their hands for decades since they took him, with something that’s equal parts skill and luck. He escapes the tavern with only a little trouble and runs after that. He nearly gets away unscathed.
Nearly.
Except Yondu steps out – Yondu, who taught Peter everything he knows, including archery. With hardly a thought, he sends an arrow straight into Peter’s back. It staggers him, nearly sends him to the ground then and there, but Peter recovers his footing, rounds the corner, and dodges out of sight.
So here he is now, with blood crawling around the side of his shirt, dripping quietly onto the wooden floor as he forces himself to sit up. He heaves in desperate, pained breaths, sweat beading and dripping down the paling skin of his forehead and neck. The shaft of the arrow still protrudes from his back, and while he gropes for it, he can’t quite get a hold of it to pull it out, not without a near blinding pulse of pain that leaves him gasping. He has the brief, dizzying realization that it’s killing him, the sharp edge of the arrow head slicing him from the inside, letting blood drain out of him.
He probably left a trail. The old crew will probably pick up on it. If the arrow doesn’t kill him – a single, fucking arrow – they almost certainly will.
Peter probably shouldn’t laugh the way he does, panicked and near hysterical, but there it is.
His satchel lands heavily into the space between his legs, and he rummages through with a bloodied hands for something to use for bandages and dressing, something to help him get a hold of the arrow in his back. The mid-afternoon light that filters in through the boarded windows catches on something in his bag, and Peter pauses, shoves his things aside to examine it. Another breathless laugh bubbles out of him when he realizes what it is: the fucking whistle.
He lifts it out with trembling fingers, turns it over in his hands. He always figured the enchantment wouldn’t actually work, in spite of how earnestly Charlie had folded Peter’s hand over it. Like giving sweets to a child to keep him from crying. And more than that, he never had need of it. His unnatural sort of luck had always gotten him out of most trouble, albeit clumsily, and a month or two after they parted ways, Peter had forgotten about Charlie’s promise.
What the hell could it hurt to try? Peter thinks. He brings the whistle to his lips, and when he blows on it— he hears nothing, the sound carried away to someone else’s ears, though he hardly realizes that; in fact, he thinks bitterly, Even the whistle doesn’t fucking work, and as much as he wants to, he doesn’t hurl it away. He tucks it carefully into his bag.
He always did like his keepsakes.
Another minute or two passes in silence. Peter lets out self-deprecating huff of a laugh and moves on, pulls out some old rags, tries to formulate some plan on how to get himself out of this mess—
And then there’s someone else in the room with him.
He doesn’t think, just moves, yanks his dagger from its place at his belt, points its tip at the new threat as he tries to scramble back.
The dagger nearly falls from boneless fingers when he realizes who he’s staring at, face going slack with the shock of it.
Then, softly, but with feeling, ]
What the fuck.