[ 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.
[ Charlie had been expecting to end up in any number of places, and that fact that he suddenly poofs into a rundown, dusty cabin is actually kind of a letdown until he hears a shuffle of movement behind him. He whips around to find Peter, blood seeping into his clothes and on his hands thanks to some wound Charlie can’t see, looking ready to fight for his life until recognition flashes across his face and the blade falls from his grip.
He might find it funny if not for the circumstances. ]
What, you didn’t think that would actually work?
[ He casts a glance back at the ruined door, and then back at Peter. ]
[ He swallows thickly, still gaping up at Charlie – Charlie, almost unrecognizable after a year and a half, save for the shock of blue of his eyes. It’s a rhetorical question that falls from Charlie’s lips, he knows, but Peter says dazedly, ]
... Kinda. Yeah.
[ For a second, he wonders if he might actually be hallucinating.
He finally tears his gaze away to follow Charlie’s glance to the door. It hangs slightly ajar from the hinges, slightly closed over though not fully shut, a bloody palm print on the doorjamb. ]
I don’t know.
[ A strained tremor in his voice. Peter scoops up his knife and stuffs it back in its sheath. ]
Maybe. Probably. I didn’t— Wasn’t exactly— careful. Getting away.
[ He figured it was a trinket. He assumed it was just a thing. And even if it did work, it’s been a year and a half – there was nothing compelling Charlie to answer the call, whatever form that might have taken. With all the time that’s passed, Peter figured Charlie would’ve just ignored it, would’ve closed that particular chapter in his life and moved on.
When Charlie crouches beside him, Peter stills, tense and wary – a year and a half is more than enough time to throw up the old barriers and defenses, the old sense of wariness and caution – but he turns after a few moments of deliberation. The arrow digs into his back, just below his rib cage, the shaft made of a light wood and the fletching in Yondu’s signature red. ]
... Old crew found me.
[ By way of explanation. Peter may have kept more than a few secrets, but in the six months he and Charlie traveled together, he had made mention of the men and women who had found him, who raised him and trained him.
Never discussed what it was he had done before they parted ways, but at least alluded to a possible unhappy reunion. ]
When Peter turns, he winces in sympathy, in part because of the arrow jutting out of Peter's back, but in part because he knows what it's like to be found by the very people you don't want finding you. ]
Hold still.
[ It's not going to be pleasant, but they need to get that arrow out. He wraps a hand around the arrow's shaft and pulls it free as best he can without worsening the damage.
The arrow goes discarded almost immediately, and Charlie presses his hands to the wound, pale blue light pulsing from his palms. Charlie's never been much of a healer, but he knows a little- enough to soothe the pain and stem the bleeding a bit. ]
[ "Hold still" is hardly a warning, and Peter frowns. ]
What for—?
[ And then Charlie grabs hold of the arrow, which is enough to make Peter hiss, and when he pulls, Peter makes a strangled noise, jerking and shouting when it comes free. ]
Fucking shit—
[ He swears, long and loud, the sort of oaths that would make a sailor cringe, though it dies down to a murmur as Charlie sends his magic through the wound. The bite of the pain eases away, and Peter sags, relieved, releasing a long breath. ]
[ He just calmly keeps pumping magic into Peter as he goes in his tirade, one eye on the door in case the shouting draws unwanted attention. ]
Sorry.
[ At the very least he sounds sorry.
Reluctantly, he pulls his bloodied hands away from Peter's back, wiping them clean on the edge of his cloak before turning to rummage through his bag. ]
Hike your shirt up. I'm going to get a bandage on you and then we're going to get out of here.
[ Peter hardly thinks as he moves – probably a result of blood loss or exhaustion, or some eagerness to get the fuck out – but carefully, he peels the hem of his shirt upward, exposing the quietly oozing wound.
He pulls it up a bit too far, though, and peeking from below the folds are the edges of dark, curling lines. ]
[ Charlie digs his bandages from his bag- all his time on the run has taught him to be better prepared- and when he turns back to tend to Peter he freezes. Those marks on Peter's skin... no, the Mark on Peter's skin shocks him into stillness for a moment.
Pieces start to fall into place, instances from their time together that could have only made sense if magic were involved- Peter was lucky, but sometimes scarily so, like the universe aligned just right to make things work out in a way that was a little too precise to be an accident, even if it seemed like it at the time.
It also explained why Peter absolutely did not trust magic at all. ]
Peter, you—
[ He stops himself. This isn't the time. If Peter's old cohorts come busting down the door, he doesn't want to be in the middle of this conversation.
Charlie leans in, looping the bandages around Peter's middle as he continues. ]
—you know this area better than I do. Where do we go from here?
[ Peter bites down on the hiss that tries to escape him as Charlie puts pressure on the wound, screwing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw. At Charlie's question, Peter grunts quietly, waiting for the bright pulse up his flank to ebb. ]
Hunting grounds to the south. Safer bet than the main roads. Lose them in the forests.
[ He lets out another strained noise as Charlie loops the bandages around, pulling them tight. ]
[ He gives an acknowledging hum to Peter’s instructions. The teleportation spell that brought Charlie to the whistle was strictly a one-way deal, and teleporting anywhere else was going to take more time than they had right now to prepare. ]
It’s a wound, Peter. Wounds tend to hurt.
[ He ties the bandage off and gets to his feet, offering Peter a hand up. ]
Once we get somewhere safer I’ll patch you up a bit better.
[ A year and a half, and Peter nearly forgot what a fucking smart-ass Charlie could be.
He straightens out his shirt once Charlie is finished and loops the strap of his satchel over the shoulder of his good side. Wrapping his arm around his middle, he bites down on his lower lip as he takes Charlie’s hand and hauls himself upright. Discomfort punches a small noise out of him, and his fingers tighten briefly at his side, but he stays on his feet.
A few unsteady steps take him to the front door, and he peeks through, watching for movement. When no one arrives, he gives Charlie a curt little nod and leads the way out.
This part of town is quiet – almost unnaturally so. Disease, maybe – something that either killed the inhabitants, or at least made the rest of the town run the area out. Peter doesn’t have mind enough to puzzle out this little mystery, focused as he is in getting out safely.
What he does have the mental acuity for, apparently, is this: ]
[ He actually manages to smile a little, in spite of the circumstances. Gods, he missed Peter, though this is hardly the time to appreciate that. The way Peter seems unsteady on his feet has him worried, and he’s running through their options for hunkering down somewhere closer when Peter pipes up. ]
I, uh. Yeah I did. It's harder for people to recognize me this way.
[ Never mind that Peter recognized him almost immediately. He’d hope that was because Peter was still sort of expecting him. ]
[ And with that stellar compliment, Peter holds up a hand to halt their progress. The quiet murmur of shouts muted by distance, and Peter tucks the two of them against the wall of another empty little cottage just as a few men in red coats appear around the corner. Peter peeks around, sees the three men conferring, and one of them kneels, peering at something on the ground.
A splotch of Peter’s blood, if he had to guess, especially since the man gestures up the road. ]
Shit.
[ Peter licks his lips, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword; he glances over at Charlie, gives him a thoughtful sort of look. ]
You remember how to fight, or do we need to make a run for it?
[ Well, it’s not much of a compliment, but he’ll take it. When Peter guides them back into cover, he sticks close, tense and ready for whatever should happen. He watches the three men carefully, and it’s obvious they’ve picked up Peter’s trail.
He cuts Peter a glance, mildly offended at the question. It makes sense, though. If they take these guys out, that’s three less people on their tail. ]
[ He answers Charlie’s affronted look with a mild one of his own – Sorry, not sorry.
A year and some change is a long time, after all; more than enough to fall out of practice.
It’s fair, when Charlie turns the question back on him, and Peter echoes that offended look – though only for a second, as it melts into something hesitant, thoughtful. ]
Maybe. Probably.
[ He glances down at his sword, but seems to think better of it as he switches to his bow – the same bow Charlie enchanted, with dark, worn wood. It’s going to hurt, using the bow instead of the sword; it’s going to put a strain on his back in a way the sword wouldn’t, but he can pick them off from a distance, this way. ]
Can you still do that spell? [ This, as he’s nocking an arrow. ] The— [ And he fumbles for a way to describe it. ] —the one that— makes everything... quiet.
[ Like the one Charlie had used the first time they had met. ]
[ He supposes he ought not to be offended, considering it’s been a damn long time since they saw each other, but Charlie hasn’t forgotten the things Peter taught him, and he’s been doing more than just sitting in his little cabin with his herbs.
Peter goes for his bow, and Charlie frowns a little. That’s going to be hell on his back, but it’s the logical choice. ]
I didn’t forget how to do magic, you know.
[ Which is a yes. Close as they are, the men are bound to notice the surge of power that comes with activating the spell, but they’re going to have a hell of a time finding the source. Charlie concentrates for a handful of seconds and then that ripple of magic goes out, makes the hair on the back of his neck prick, as everything around them goes quiet, like it’s covered in a layer of thick cotton. ]
[ Distractedly, listening in for the approaching footsteps of his old teammates. ]
Listen, kid, it’s been over a year. For all I know, you’ve forgotten everything to take on the mantle of a humble pig farmer, okay?
[ But he falls silent as Charlie’s expression goes distant with concentration. He waits, holding his breath, steeling himself to take his shots, and when he feels that prickling sensation wash over him – like the air before a thunder storm – he peers out of cover.
The men shout in alarm from several houses away, going for their weapons, looking around wildly. The Ravagers were naturally distrustful of magic, after all, something instilled to them by Yondu. Magic was a corrupting force, he had said, made men lazy, made men dangerous. People with magic were almost universally bastards not worthy of trust.
(A pointed look at Peter, whenever he made that speech. Yondu knew about the Mark on his back and was determined to use that particular lecture as a reminder to Peter – keep the Mark hidden. Forget he ever had it.)
Their gazes slide right over Peter, half out of his hiding spot though he is. A part of him is almost glad none of them are Yondu; Peter’s not sure if he would’ve had the guts to put an arrow in him.
He has no such compunctions with these men – assholes he only vaguely recognizes from his youth. Peter draws the first arrow, a pained sound punched out of him with the strain. He grits his teeth, carefully taking aim, and looses it into the temple of the man who drifts closest. More startled noises from the other two men, who crouch beside their fallen companion.
Peter’s face turns ashen with the effort of drawing again – another arrow, sent through the heart of the second man. The final man stands, starts darting toward the source of the arrows without actually seeing Peter, trying to let out some sort of battle cry. Peter doesn’t give him the chance, sending the final arrow through his throat.
As the last man crumples to the ground, Peter sags, slinging his bow back over his shoulder, and he immediately wraps his arms around his middle again. ]
[ He nearly corrects, "Apothecary, actually", but the spellwork has him distracted. They can catch up later.
It's a bit of an effort of will to keep the spell in place while Peter fires off his arrows, but given that Charlie is a far cry from the exhausted, hungry thing he was when Peter first saw him cast the spell, it's not much of a strain. ]
[ Brusquely, and he takes a second to catch his breath. ]
Or as fine as I can be with an actual hole in my back.
[ When he feels more steady, he starts back in the direction they were headed – though he picks up the pace, this time. Less caution, more get the fuck out. ]
[ Well, that makes two of them slightly confused, at least, because Peter doesn't quite understand that. Why Charlie would opt to show up when Peter came calling.
It's strange, really. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense.
But that's a riddle he can unravel later, and the two of them hurry to the edge of the dead village, following the trails worn into the ground by the hunters and fur traders who traveled the areas. Only when they're reasonably far away does Peter hear the echo of a few shouts from the town – the corpses of his former teammates found, probably – and he pulls them off the paths into the underbrush.
It's there that his strength flags, and he has to stop for breath, propping himself up against a tree while a hand clenches around the bloodied fabric of his shirt at his side. ]
Goddammit. [ Hissed out, and he glances over his shoulder, as if waiting for the old crew to come bounding through the trees. ]
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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.
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He might find it funny if not for the circumstances. ]
What, you didn’t think that would actually work?
[ He casts a glance back at the ruined door, and then back at Peter. ]
Are you being followed?
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... Kinda. Yeah.
[ For a second, he wonders if he might actually be hallucinating.
He finally tears his gaze away to follow Charlie’s glance to the door. It hangs slightly ajar from the hinges, slightly closed over though not fully shut, a bloody palm print on the doorjamb. ]
I don’t know.
[ A strained tremor in his voice. Peter scoops up his knife and stuffs it back in its sheath. ]
Maybe. Probably. I didn’t— Wasn’t exactly— careful. Getting away.
[ He licks his lips, lets out a shaking breath. ]
What the hell are you doing here?
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You blew the whistle didn't you?
[ Duh.
He moves to crouch next to Peter, resting a gentle hand on his arm. ]
Turn around. Let me see your wound.
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[ He figured it was a trinket. He assumed it was just a thing. And even if it did work, it’s been a year and a half – there was nothing compelling Charlie to answer the call, whatever form that might have taken. With all the time that’s passed, Peter figured Charlie would’ve just ignored it, would’ve closed that particular chapter in his life and moved on.
When Charlie crouches beside him, Peter stills, tense and wary – a year and a half is more than enough time to throw up the old barriers and defenses, the old sense of wariness and caution – but he turns after a few moments of deliberation. The arrow digs into his back, just below his rib cage, the shaft made of a light wood and the fletching in Yondu’s signature red. ]
... Old crew found me.
[ By way of explanation. Peter may have kept more than a few secrets, but in the six months he and Charlie traveled together, he had made mention of the men and women who had found him, who raised him and trained him.
Never discussed what it was he had done before they parted ways, but at least alluded to a possible unhappy reunion. ]
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[ As simple as that.
When Peter turns, he winces in sympathy, in part because of the arrow jutting out of Peter's back, but in part because he knows what it's like to be found by the very people you don't want finding you. ]
Hold still.
[ It's not going to be pleasant, but they need to get that arrow out. He wraps a hand around the arrow's shaft and pulls it free as best he can without worsening the damage.
The arrow goes discarded almost immediately, and Charlie presses his hands to the wound, pale blue light pulsing from his palms. Charlie's never been much of a healer, but he knows a little- enough to soothe the pain and stem the bleeding a bit. ]
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What for—?
[ And then Charlie grabs hold of the arrow, which is enough to make Peter hiss, and when he pulls, Peter makes a strangled noise, jerking and shouting when it comes free. ]
Fucking shit—
[ He swears, long and loud, the sort of oaths that would make a sailor cringe, though it dies down to a murmur as Charlie sends his magic through the wound. The bite of the pain eases away, and Peter sags, relieved, releasing a long breath. ]
Shit. Bit more warning next time, huh?
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Sorry.
[ At the very least he sounds sorry.
Reluctantly, he pulls his bloodied hands away from Peter's back, wiping them clean on the edge of his cloak before turning to rummage through his bag. ]
Hike your shirt up. I'm going to get a bandage on you and then we're going to get out of here.
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He pulls it up a bit too far, though, and peeking from below the folds are the edges of dark, curling lines. ]
Better make it quick.
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Pieces start to fall into place, instances from their time together that could have only made sense if magic were involved- Peter was lucky, but sometimes scarily so, like the universe aligned just right to make things work out in a way that was a little too precise to be an accident, even if it seemed like it at the time.
It also explained why Peter absolutely did not trust magic at all. ]
Peter, you—
[ He stops himself. This isn't the time. If Peter's old cohorts come busting down the door, he doesn't want to be in the middle of this conversation.
Charlie leans in, looping the bandages around Peter's middle as he continues. ]
—you know this area better than I do. Where do we go from here?
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Hunting grounds to the south. Safer bet than the main roads. Lose them in the forests.
[ He lets out another strained noise as Charlie loops the bandages around, pulling them tight. ]
Fuck, that hurts.
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It’s a wound, Peter. Wounds tend to hurt.
[ He ties the bandage off and gets to his feet, offering Peter a hand up. ]
Once we get somewhere safer I’ll patch you up a bit better.
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[ A year and a half, and Peter nearly forgot what a fucking smart-ass Charlie could be.
He straightens out his shirt once Charlie is finished and loops the strap of his satchel over the shoulder of his good side. Wrapping his arm around his middle, he bites down on his lower lip as he takes Charlie’s hand and hauls himself upright. Discomfort punches a small noise out of him, and his fingers tighten briefly at his side, but he stays on his feet.
A few unsteady steps take him to the front door, and he peeks through, watching for movement. When no one arrives, he gives Charlie a curt little nod and leads the way out.
This part of town is quiet – almost unnaturally so. Disease, maybe – something that either killed the inhabitants, or at least made the rest of the town run the area out. Peter doesn’t have mind enough to puzzle out this little mystery, focused as he is in getting out safely.
What he does have the mental acuity for, apparently, is this: ]
You grew your hair out.
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I, uh. Yeah I did. It's harder for people to recognize me this way.
[ Never mind that Peter recognized him almost immediately. He’d hope that was because Peter was still sort of expecting him. ]
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[ And with that stellar compliment, Peter holds up a hand to halt their progress. The quiet murmur of shouts muted by distance, and Peter tucks the two of them against the wall of another empty little cottage just as a few men in red coats appear around the corner. Peter peeks around, sees the three men conferring, and one of them kneels, peering at something on the ground.
A splotch of Peter’s blood, if he had to guess, especially since the man gestures up the road. ]
Shit.
[ Peter licks his lips, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword; he glances over at Charlie, gives him a thoughtful sort of look. ]
You remember how to fight, or do we need to make a run for it?
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He cuts Peter a glance, mildly offended at the question. It makes sense, though. If they take these guys out, that’s three less people on their tail. ]
I can fight. Can you?
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A year and some change is a long time, after all; more than enough to fall out of practice.
It’s fair, when Charlie turns the question back on him, and Peter echoes that offended look – though only for a second, as it melts into something hesitant, thoughtful. ]
Maybe. Probably.
[ He glances down at his sword, but seems to think better of it as he switches to his bow – the same bow Charlie enchanted, with dark, worn wood. It’s going to hurt, using the bow instead of the sword; it’s going to put a strain on his back in a way the sword wouldn’t, but he can pick them off from a distance, this way. ]
Can you still do that spell? [ This, as he’s nocking an arrow. ] The— [ And he fumbles for a way to describe it. ] —the one that— makes everything... quiet.
[ Like the one Charlie had used the first time they had met. ]
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Peter goes for his bow, and Charlie frowns a little. That’s going to be hell on his back, but it’s the logical choice. ]
I didn’t forget how to do magic, you know.
[ Which is a yes. Close as they are, the men are bound to notice the surge of power that comes with activating the spell, but they’re going to have a hell of a time finding the source. Charlie concentrates for a handful of seconds and then that ripple of magic goes out, makes the hair on the back of his neck prick, as everything around them goes quiet, like it’s covered in a layer of thick cotton. ]
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Listen, kid, it’s been over a year. For all I know, you’ve forgotten everything to take on the mantle of a humble pig farmer, okay?
[ But he falls silent as Charlie’s expression goes distant with concentration. He waits, holding his breath, steeling himself to take his shots, and when he feels that prickling sensation wash over him – like the air before a thunder storm – he peers out of cover.
The men shout in alarm from several houses away, going for their weapons, looking around wildly. The Ravagers were naturally distrustful of magic, after all, something instilled to them by Yondu. Magic was a corrupting force, he had said, made men lazy, made men dangerous. People with magic were almost universally bastards not worthy of trust.
(A pointed look at Peter, whenever he made that speech. Yondu knew about the Mark on his back and was determined to use that particular lecture as a reminder to Peter – keep the Mark hidden. Forget he ever had it.)
Their gazes slide right over Peter, half out of his hiding spot though he is. A part of him is almost glad none of them are Yondu; Peter’s not sure if he would’ve had the guts to put an arrow in him.
He has no such compunctions with these men – assholes he only vaguely recognizes from his youth. Peter draws the first arrow, a pained sound punched out of him with the strain. He grits his teeth, carefully taking aim, and looses it into the temple of the man who drifts closest. More startled noises from the other two men, who crouch beside their fallen companion.
Peter’s face turns ashen with the effort of drawing again – another arrow, sent through the heart of the second man. The final man stands, starts darting toward the source of the arrows without actually seeing Peter, trying to let out some sort of battle cry. Peter doesn’t give him the chance, sending the final arrow through his throat.
As the last man crumples to the ground, Peter sags, slinging his bow back over his shoulder, and he immediately wraps his arms around his middle again. ]
Can you keep the spell going?
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It's a bit of an effort of will to keep the spell in place while Peter fires off his arrows, but given that Charlie is a far cry from the exhausted, hungry thing he was when Peter first saw him cast the spell, it's not much of a strain. ]
For a bit, yeah. You okay?
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[ Brusquely, and he takes a second to catch his breath. ]
Or as fine as I can be with an actual hole in my back.
[ When he feels more steady, he starts back in the direction they were headed – though he picks up the pace, this time. Less caution, more get the fuck out. ]
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How many of them were there?
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[ A pause. ]
Three less, now.
[ He casts Charlie a thoughtful sort of look, taking in the differences quietly. Then, slowly, ]
... I probably shouldn't have called you. And you probably shouldn't have come.
Sorry.
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I came because I wanted to. I didn't have to answer that whistle.
So don't apologize, okay?
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It's strange, really. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense.
But that's a riddle he can unravel later, and the two of them hurry to the edge of the dead village, following the trails worn into the ground by the hunters and fur traders who traveled the areas. Only when they're reasonably far away does Peter hear the echo of a few shouts from the town – the corpses of his former teammates found, probably – and he pulls them off the paths into the underbrush.
It's there that his strength flags, and he has to stop for breath, propping himself up against a tree while a hand clenches around the bloodied fabric of his shirt at his side. ]
Goddammit. [ Hissed out, and he glances over his shoulder, as if waiting for the old crew to come bounding through the trees. ]
Any tricks, pig farmer?
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