i’ll wake up humming
Peter changes his clothes, and Drax is standing a few feet away from him. He makes no comments on his body. They do this daily; one or both of them change, and the other exists in the same space. It’s peaceful.
Peter sits at the dining table, and Gamora places a protein bar in front of him, hand trailing across his shoulders on her way to the cockpit. She says nothing and neither does he. They need no words.
Peter works meticulously on his Walkman, shoving a wire back into place after a rough battle, and Rocket hip bumps him out of the way, snatching the Walkman and putting the wires back in place mindlessly.
Peter hums while he steers the ship, and Groot dances in his pot, a silent companion.
There’s an ease that comes with living with the Guardians that didn't happen when living with the Ravagers. He doesn’t have to stow units away secretly anymore. He shares with the rest of the team, and they make financial decisions together. Peter doesn’t feel like there’s this dusty coating on his skin when he’s around people; he’s not Peter: the Pretty Boy, he’s Peter: the Human. It’s strangely relieving.
There’s an equal weight of responsibility now. Peter doesn’t always have to do the talking, or the distracting, or the life-risking.
There’s annoying aspects too. Gamora steals his clean shirts, and Rocket uses all the hot water, and Drax lurks in corners during Peter’s alone time.
But even then, something about the annoying things makes his heart feel a little warm.
“Gamora!” Peter shouts, aggravated and storming into the living space of the Milano. “That was my last clean shirt. I need it.”
Gamora turns to him with a singular eyebrow raised. She’s wearing her own clothes. “I do not have your clothes, Peter.”
Peter sighs, throwing his hands in the air. “Then who-”
Drax emerges from behind an open cabinet. He’s wearing a dark navy shirt, stretched to the limits across his broad chest.
“Dude, you don’t even like shirts!” Peter complains.
“I thought I would try it. But you are right. I do not like it.” Drax stripped and tossed the cloth to Peter.
Grumbling, Peter slipped it over his head. “You stretched it out, man.”
Drax shrugged.
Peter sighed again. Gamora placed a bowl of eggs on the table in front of him. He sat down to eat.
Rocket sauntered in and stole some of his food. Peter didn’t protest. Gamora propped her legs on the table and tapped on a tablet. She was wearing Peter’s socks.
A long time ago, when Peter was a child on Terra, he was more intrigued by the ocean than space. Funny, seeing as he was abducted by aliens and not mermaids.
But even now, light years away from Terra and surrounded by billions of stars, Peter finds similarities to the sea. The stars seem to come alive, wriggling and stretching in the inky atmosphere like a school of fish.
For a moment, just a moment, Peter thinks he may be homesick, but then he glances down at Groot, who is asleep in his pot, and the feeling dissipates.
He feels good with his new family. He feels like he belongs.
Peter glances behind him, into the quiet holdings of the ship, where the rest of the team is sleeping, and slips his Walkman over his ears.
“My sweet Lord
Mm, my Lord
Mm, my Lord”