[ is he dead? the way his head is pounding sure makes him think so. christ, he is so hungover. or maybe he's still drunk, maybe that's why he's waking up on the — floor? — of his room, and why he's steadfastly refusing to open his eyes in spite of the whole floor situation because he feels like if he does, he's going to throw up.

he thinks he remembers groot trying to wake him — which he'd ignored because he'd really wanted to sleep; and the guardians — the new guardians, since rocket was—

—well, he's not talking about rocket, and he's trying not to think about him either. the same goes for gamora. whatever. the new guardians had been having teething problems with regards to 'being a team' and 'getting along' and 'letting peter have some peace and flarking quiet' and apparently that's still an issue this morning based on the noises coming from—.

(fuck.)

reluctantly, but with the kind of dismayed urgency that occurs only when you've suddenly realised that something is very, very wrong, he opens his eyes: he's not in his quarters. he's not on the ryder.

he's not even in space.

he sits up abruptly, nausea being replaced by a swell of dread in his stomach. it's not often anyone gets the drop on him, and okay, he's not been living his best life just lately, but he's still him and more than that, for him to be here — wherever here is — it means whoever's out there had to get through his crew.

that's problem number one.

problem number two is that he's not alone and the person near him, the one that looks to be enjoying their nap on the unpleasantly warm stone as much as peter had been enjoying his, isn't anyone that he recognises.

he lifts a hand to just behind his right ear, fingers coming to rest on—

—nothing.

he exhales, audibly and irritably, frustration catching in his throat, and— )

So. ( is what he starts with when his companion slash associate slash mysterious stranger starts to stir. )

( the photos and the belongings that slowly start to appear in the building that he's (temporarily, okay, temporarily) claimed as his own unsettle him. they're photos that he's never taken, photos that he's never been featured in. they're him and mantis and drax. rocket and groot and gamora. him and rich.

he — they, he supposes — haven't managed to receive satisfactory answers about where they are or how they got there. it seems like earth, but even though it's been a while since peter's been back and even longer since he's spent an extended amount of time on the planet, he's pretty sure that earth doesn't have magically replenishing shops and restaurants; or houses that fill themselves with not-really-personal-but-kinda personal belongings of their inhabitants.

it gives him, quite frankly, the heebies, and more than anything he finds himself wishing there was something to punch or to shoot or to argue with, or—

—anything.

or at least, that's what he thinks until he finds himself watching a play projected onto a stone wall. it's weird, he thinks. discomforting in ways he can't quite put into words.

gaze shifting sideways, he looks at the person that had joined him during his second watch. an odd emptiness sits in his chest, a strange feeling of despair that he doesn't quite know how to react to. his breath hitches in his throat when he opens his mouth to speak and he pauses, hesitancy flashing across his features.

he coughs once, then twice, then a third time, as if doing so will shake the unusual feeling of melancholy that's overcome him. )

( his elemental gun had turned up some time after he'd settled in one of the apartments. it'd been a little while after the series of photos had made appearances on the walls and atop furniture, and a smidge after some of his clothing had turned up in the wardrobe.

when the city turns from bright sunshine to darkness and an all-encompassing humidity that he could really do without — he finds himself increasingly grateful that he has it. the stillness of the air is almost suffocating, and as the food in the shops and the restaurants start to rot, the stench makes rhodos less and less palatable to inhabit.

the first time peter hears them — the dogs and the chains — there's a moment he thinks he's imagining it, until he hears the sound of scraping metal and flesh against stone for the second time, the third time, and he acknowledges the fact that there's definitely something in the town with him (them), and it's probably not friendly.

he comes to a stop, hand resting on his gun, trepidation and caution playing in equal parts. )

Here boy. [ beat. ] Who's a good boy, [ he half-whispers, one hand raised with the palm outstretched towards the god, other resting just above his hip, near his gun. he's not entirely convinced that drawing their attention is the smartest idea he's ever had. )

( if none of the above takes your fancy, feel free to drop me a starter for something else — I'm totally open to ideas! or shoot me a pm and we can discuss options. )