( peter's sleeping habits are capital-p poor. he has no routine to speak of, having a tendency to let circumstances dictate where and when he ought to sleep. on the plus — quote-unquote, it's a mixed fortune — side, when he does sleep, he can and will sleep through anything, regardless of where he is. )
'Mdead. ( is his answer, an "I'm dead" that's muffled and enunciated all as one. he doesn't both moving his head away from the pillow or even pulling the duvet away from his face to attempt to reply properly. instead, he pulls the blanket tighter, attempts to further cocoon himself from the outside world.
at first.
the ensuing pause lingers as the question slowly, slowly registers with peter. who are you she'd asked, and he doesn't know who she is, either. there's no 'she' on his ship, not anymore, not after gamora had decided to go completely flarking nutso and—
—whatever.
he cracks open one eye, then the second. the finer details of the room don't sink in at first, just the bed opposite his. the multitudes of browns that don't exist on the ryder and a particularly garish bedspread that tugs at peter's memories and makes him think, quite suddenly, of home. )
Shit. ( is what he manages as he sits up, quite abruptly, and his gaze settles — finally — on wanda. )
i
'Mdead. ( is his answer, an "I'm dead" that's muffled and enunciated all as one. he doesn't both moving his head away from the pillow or even pulling the duvet away from his face to attempt to reply properly. instead, he pulls the blanket tighter, attempts to further cocoon himself from the outside world.
at first.
the ensuing pause lingers as the question slowly, slowly registers with peter. who are you she'd asked, and he doesn't know who she is, either. there's no 'she' on his ship, not anymore, not after gamora had decided to go completely flarking nutso and—
—whatever.
he cracks open one eye, then the second. the finer details of the room don't sink in at first, just the bed opposite his. the multitudes of browns that don't exist on the ryder and a particularly garish bedspread that tugs at peter's memories and makes him think, quite suddenly, of home. )
Shit. ( is what he manages as he sits up, quite abruptly, and his gaze settles — finally — on wanda. )