Close Encounters (Kate Bishop/Peter Quill, background Kate/Skye)
“Oww,” Kate gingerly touches the back of her head, jerking her hand away from the tender lump.
“You okay, there?” a voice from above Kate says, a hand appearing with a cup full of what looks like water appearing in her direct line of sight. “Water?”
“You should see the other guys,” Kate mutters, peering suspiciously at the water.
A short bark of laughter.
“I did, actually. I don’t know that I realized a bow and arrow could do so much damage. So,” he sits next to her, the cot creaking in protest, red-leather-clad knees entering her peripheral vision. “You’re Terran?”
“What-an? Oh, uh. Crap, I don’t even know what universe I’m in.”
“Oh! Earth. Terran. From Earth, human.”
“Which Earth?”
“The—only one?”
Kate finally musters the will to look at the person she’s talking to. Curly hair, kind of a dusty red. A healing black eye, a dusting of freckles across his nose. How he got those in space, Kate doesn’t know.
“Right,” Kate tries to stretch, her shoulder catching before she even reaches the halfway point. “I need to find my team.” She stands, sways a bit, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself.
“They’re with Gamora in the galley,” he says before realizing that’s not any kind of explanation. “Uh. Gamora. My second-in-command. I’m Star Lord.”
“Right.”
“You can call me Peter?”
“Sure.”
“So, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck. “We’re soulmates, right?”
“What?” Kate’s eyes flick down to her hand where she can see the bold lines of Skye’s mark peeking through her glove. “Um. I don’t have any words, so, no.”
“Oh!” The poor guy’s face crumples. “Sorry. That’s—I’ve just—I’m sorry.”
“Unless you’re part alien, or something,” she mutters, examining the damage to her uniform. Knee torn out, one sleeve half-gone, the other singed. Damnit. Isn’t this shit supposed to be indestructible?
“What do you mean, part alien?” he asks, voice loud. Really loud, and is there turbulence in space? Everything’s rocking.
“Part alien. Different genetics, soulmarks sometimes manifest differently.” Her head is spinning but she manages to peel off her glove and wiggle her fingers in his direction. “Touch sometimes triggers it. Dude, not to be rude, but is your ship supposed to be moving this much?”
“It’s—it’s not. Do you maybe want to sit back down?”
“I’m fine,” she insists, pitching forward.
Mystery Guy catches her by the shoulder, and Kate feels a warmth trace down her arm. Looking down, from where his hand touches her, there’s a pattern—maroon, orange, yellow, traces of purple.
“Oh, goddamnit,” she says just as her knees give out.