He's not even a waking person, because time is not really a concept he pays particular attention to in space.
Current Peter is cosy and comfortable and he doesn't particularly want to move. Sure, he's just had the weirdest dream — like, not the weirdest dream of his life, that was definitely the one with the Master of the Sun or whoever — but it was still up there. He thinks that if he just stays very still and keeps his eyes closed, he can go back to sleep, back into warm, comforting embrace of the blankets he's currently buried beneath.
There's a part of him that says this is not right. He feels well-rested for the first time in — well, a long time, he doesn't even know. He has no headache, no hangover, which frankly surprises even him. He thinks he remembers, faintly, Groot yelling something at him about the end of the galaxy, or just the galaxy in general. He'd ignored it because he'd felt like death, told Groot he was dead, and now—.
Ugh, fine.
This isn't right. His bed is not this comfortable, his blanket is not this thick. His ship is not this quiet.
He opens his eyes and stares at the not-quite darkness of his duvet-cocoon. Somewhere in the outside world, there's a bang, a slow rattle of china against wood, then a dull thud and the sound of something cracking.
Peter groans and sits up, squinting in the sudden daylight of the motel room. His stomach churns, a mixture of dread and panic pulling at his insides tightly as he takes in the room, before it settles into sharp, sudden confusion.
There's a broken lamp on the carpet between the two (two?) beds, and there's Matthew-flarking-Murdock stood next to the lamp.
The last time Peter had been on Earth — like, actually on Earth in an extended-stay kind of way, in what amounted to the galaxy's shittiest vacation, he'd ended up in court.
Now that it's all in the past, he can acknowledge that Murdock is, presumably, a really good lawyer, but it doesn't mean he's not still slightly salty about the "probably colourful outfit" jab (blue and grey is not colourful, mister-flarking-fancy-suits), or the "it shoots fire so it's a firearm", are you fucking kidding him? God, his lawyer had really sucked.
He runs a hand through his hair, and stays quiet for one second, then two, then—
"Either I'm having the weirdest flarking dream or I'm still drunk."
He's not either of those things, he knows that, but consider this: what the fuck.
blood offering, or: zdarsky vs zdarsky
He's not even a waking person, because time is not really a concept he pays particular attention to in space.
Current Peter is cosy and comfortable and he doesn't particularly want to move. Sure, he's just had the weirdest dream — like, not the weirdest dream of his life, that was definitely the one with the Master of the Sun or whoever — but it was still up there. He thinks that if he just stays very still and keeps his eyes closed, he can go back to sleep, back into warm, comforting embrace of the blankets he's currently buried beneath.
There's a part of him that says this is not right. He feels well-rested for the first time in — well, a long time, he doesn't even know. He has no headache, no hangover, which frankly surprises even him. He thinks he remembers, faintly, Groot yelling something at him about the end of the galaxy, or just the galaxy in general. He'd ignored it because he'd felt like death, told Groot he was dead, and now—.
Ugh, fine.
This isn't right. His bed is not this comfortable, his blanket is not this thick. His ship is not this quiet.
He opens his eyes and stares at the not-quite darkness of his duvet-cocoon. Somewhere in the outside world, there's a bang, a slow rattle of china against wood, then a dull thud and the sound of something cracking.
Peter groans and sits up, squinting in the sudden daylight of the motel room. His stomach churns, a mixture of dread and panic pulling at his insides tightly as he takes in the room, before it settles into sharp, sudden confusion.
There's a broken lamp on the carpet between the two (two?) beds, and there's Matthew-flarking-Murdock stood next to the lamp.
The last time Peter had been on Earth — like, actually on Earth in an extended-stay kind of way, in what amounted to the galaxy's shittiest vacation, he'd ended up in court.
Now that it's all in the past, he can acknowledge that Murdock is, presumably, a really good lawyer, but it doesn't mean he's not still slightly salty about the "probably colourful outfit" jab (blue and grey is not colourful, mister-flarking-fancy-suits), or the "it shoots fire so it's a firearm", are you fucking kidding him? God, his lawyer had really sucked.
He runs a hand through his hair, and stays quiet for one second, then two, then—
"Either I'm having the weirdest flarking dream or I'm still drunk."
He's not either of those things, he knows that, but consider this: what the fuck.