[Between that bounty hunter almost killing him and the contagion working its way through his system, Peter Quill is feeling on the wrong side of shitty. As the hours pass he notices it gets harder and harder to walk in a straight line. Nausea rises, the taste of bile sour in the back of his throat as he has to stop every now and then, half hunched over to squeeze his eyes shut and wait for the world to stop spinning.
Hell. He's gotten sick between hangovers, Ravager birthdays, and just eating the wrong food that wasn't meant for human digestion. None of it feels like this, somehow more real than real, every breath rasping. His vision swims as he stops, yet again, and he's about to move on when he realizes with a start that he isn't alone.]
Who's asking?
[And it says a lot that he doesn't recognize Venom at first, considering the work shifts they've shared, the favors they traded. The tell-tale silhouette he makes as the lamp casts him in harsh shadow. He manages to lift his head, his neck muscles aching and sore like he's pulled them, his eyes dull as he fixes an unfocused stare at Venom]
no subject
Hell. He's gotten sick between hangovers, Ravager birthdays, and just eating the wrong food that wasn't meant for human digestion. None of it feels like this, somehow more real than real, every breath rasping. His vision swims as he stops, yet again, and he's about to move on when he realizes with a start that he isn't alone.]
Who's asking?
[And it says a lot that he doesn't recognize Venom at first, considering the work shifts they've shared, the favors they traded. The tell-tale silhouette he makes as the lamp casts him in harsh shadow. He manages to lift his head, his neck muscles aching and sore like he's pulled them, his eyes dull as he fixes an unfocused stare at Venom]