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[toldyouso]

[It's a new guy who some people might recognize from the Cancerverse field trip, except he's now clean-shaven and doesn't look like he's just come from spending years wandering around a hell dimension.]

Very serious question: what's the best bar around here?

[Pete doesn't need a drink. He just wants a drink.]

[private to Rich]

Pick up the phone, man.

Comments

sliding into [action]

[toldyouso]

There is always a "worse."

[Rich, why are you friends with this guy, again?]

I'll be there in a few.

[Pete heads for the mess first, to pick up a meal of Rich's favorites, or as close as the 31st century gets. Fortunately, the staff are happy to help, from recommendations to boxing it all up, and Pete has to take a moment to accustom himself to the unfamiliar sensation of people going out of their way to help him.

Soon he's poking Rich's doorbell, doggy bag and his helmet dangling from the other hand. Yes, he asked the Legion at large where to get a drink before he even swung by his own quarters.]

[iamresponding]

[His quarters aren't that much of a mess. He's got people that care about him, from friends to Legion staff members, and people have been keeping his room clean, checking on him. The TV remote's within arm's reach, his omnicom is there too, loaded with media.]

[When Peter comes in, he's laying on the couch, wrapped in blankets. The TV is off. The lights are only on because the last person that checked on him left them that way. He hasn't shaved in few days and there are circles under his eyes. (His sleep has been restless and there hasn't been a break in the nightmares.)]

[Peter has only ever seen him moving. The only times he ever stopped were when he was straight up unconscious or half-dead, recovering from getting blown up or beaten down. And he'd always been antsy while recovering, raring to get back on his feet and back into the action.]

[Right now he's just very quiet and still, and those still waters run deep.]

Hey.

[It's barely more than a whisper.]

[toldyouso]

[Pete's got a damn good poker face and manages not to react visibly, but he doesn't think it matters. Rich likely wouldn't have noticed if he'd walked in dressed like Medusa.]

You don't need me to tell you this, but you look like hell.

[Since Rich is taking up the entire couch, Pete seats himself on the coffee table, bag and helmet beside him. He's seen PTSD before, in everyone from civilians to soldiers to other prisoners in the Kyln. Sometimes he'd tried to help, especially back when he'd been Star-Lord the first time and infected with a terrible mixture of idealism and overconfidence. Later, he hadn't. Neither choice had made much difference in the scheme of things.

But now it's Rich, and this is not how it's supposed to go. Where's Mantis or Moondragon when he needs them? Or hell, even Cosmo. The telepathic dog would probably be more help here than Pete.]

C'mon. Sit up.

[iamresponding]

[He responds to the command with the obedience of a small child. It's like the idea of sitting up and taking care of himself, of moving and talking and being a person, isn't even occurring to him as an option.]

[Every gesture is slow, like it's a struggle to have the energy to even move. His mental energy is sapped and he feels like he's constantly struggling to move through running water.]

[He manages to sit up on the couch and face Peter, but when he does it's still almost like he's looking through him, like he's barely there.]

[For a second he wants to say that he feels like hell but the effort it would take is too much for him to force past his lips. This is why he's been relying so heavily on texting. It's easy to do while barely moving, a way of talking to others despite feeling like a vegetable.]