This is not, in fact, Peter's first time waking up somewhere really frickin' weird, without any knowledge of how he ended up there. It's not his first time getting dropped in the proverbial deep end with the expectation he'll learn to swim. And it's not even his first time being kidnapped, sadly enough.
(See, this is why he was taking a break. His life is so weird, and god, he needs therapy. Stat.)
But he's a survivor, at his core, and while a portion of his brain has dedicated itself to the strange calculus of figuring out this mystery and making his way home, he still acknowledges that, first and foremost, he has to not die. Which is made simple by the amenities on hand – the free food, the lodging, even the mild forms of entertainment. Even if there isn't really anywhere to grab movies or find music or anything of the sort.
(Which sucks.)
He's making do, though. It's only been a handful of days, so for now, he's just finding his way around, getting acquainted with the areas that they're free to access before he starts messing with the areas the areas they aren't. He doesn't want to go into the inaccessible areas until he has a weapon, at least. He could probably snatch a bowling ball and use that as a bludgeon, but then he'd have to carry around said bowling ball, and that sounds annoying.
For now, he's planning on stocking up, just grabbing essentials from the closest grocer – something he was starting to get used to doing for his grandfather, a month after Peter had returned to Missouri. It'd almost feel routine if it weren't for the eerie stillness and quiet of the streets. Peter's never been much of a cook, but he can get away with basics. Also instant noodles. Also sugary cereals and milk. (Part of a balanced breakfast!)
He's frowning to himself, mostly, gaze unfocused as he thinks. (And those thoughts, of course, mostly consist of, Grandpa is gonna be so pissed I got abducted. Again.) But his attention is caught when he hears his name.
It takes a split-second for his ears to catch up with his brain when he realizes he recognizes the voice.
His head jerks up, and he looks around, frantic. He thinks he's imagining things.
Then his gaze falls on her, and he stares. When he manages to find his voice, it's a fun cocktail of relief and uncertainty and confusion. ]
Gamora. Holy shit. Hey.
[ Strangely, his tone is closer to what someone might use after running into a familiar acquaintance at a work conference full of strangers. And he's careful to keep it at that – friendly, professional, without the tons and tons of baggage to give weight to his voice.
They're not too far apart – maybe half a block? – and he quickly moves to close the distance. He looks different than Gamora likely remembers. He's let his beard grow in more, and his hair is a little longer. His signature leather jacket is swapped for a softer maroon bomber. ]
Your hair's different.
[ In that, you know, it looks washed now. He keeps that observation to himself. ]
no subject
This is not, in fact, Peter's first time waking up somewhere really frickin' weird, without any knowledge of how he ended up there. It's not his first time getting dropped in the proverbial deep end with the expectation he'll learn to swim. And it's not even his first time being kidnapped, sadly enough.
(See, this is why he was taking a break. His life is so weird, and god, he needs therapy. Stat.)
But he's a survivor, at his core, and while a portion of his brain has dedicated itself to the strange calculus of figuring out this mystery and making his way home, he still acknowledges that, first and foremost, he has to not die. Which is made simple by the amenities on hand – the free food, the lodging, even the mild forms of entertainment. Even if there isn't really anywhere to grab movies or find music or anything of the sort.
(Which sucks.)
He's making do, though. It's only been a handful of days, so for now, he's just finding his way around, getting acquainted with the areas that they're free to access before he starts messing with the areas the areas they aren't. He doesn't want to go into the inaccessible areas until he has a weapon, at least. He could probably snatch a bowling ball and use that as a bludgeon, but then he'd have to carry around said bowling ball, and that sounds annoying.
For now, he's planning on stocking up, just grabbing essentials from the closest grocer – something he was starting to get used to doing for his grandfather, a month after Peter had returned to Missouri. It'd almost feel routine if it weren't for the eerie stillness and quiet of the streets. Peter's never been much of a cook, but he can get away with basics. Also instant noodles. Also sugary cereals and milk. (Part of a balanced breakfast!)
He's frowning to himself, mostly, gaze unfocused as he thinks. (And those thoughts, of course, mostly consist of, Grandpa is gonna be so pissed I got abducted. Again.) But his attention is caught when he hears his name.
It takes a split-second for his ears to catch up with his brain when he realizes he recognizes the voice.
His head jerks up, and he looks around, frantic. He thinks he's imagining things.
Then his gaze falls on her, and he stares. When he manages to find his voice, it's a fun cocktail of relief and uncertainty and confusion. ]
Gamora. Holy shit. Hey.
[ Strangely, his tone is closer to what someone might use after running into a familiar acquaintance at a work conference full of strangers. And he's careful to keep it at that – friendly, professional, without the tons and tons of baggage to give weight to his voice.
They're not too far apart – maybe half a block? – and he quickly moves to close the distance. He looks different than Gamora likely remembers. He's let his beard grow in more, and his hair is a little longer. His signature leather jacket is swapped for a softer maroon bomber. ]
Your hair's different.
[ In that, you know, it looks washed now. He keeps that observation to himself. ]