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Strawberry Soda (Peter Quill/Peter Parker)

Floating high above these fears, there's no way I'm coming down.

In between the planning, the execution, and Doctor Strange going over the five million ways they were all going to fail this mission, Quill pulled Peter to the side. 

“Hey, kid.” 

“Not a kid.” Peter rolled his eyes and tugged at the neck of his suit. He missed his actual clothes and he was worried about May and MJ and Ned and Mr Stark’s face was actually a little green if he looked at Peter for too long, so he was trying to stay out of his eyeline. 

“Whatever, kid. This is important.” Quill sat down on one of the rocks and motioned Peter down. “We gotta talk about this Footloose thing.” 

He nearly snorted because, seriously? They were facing the annihilation of half the universe and this guy wanted to talk about a crappy Kevin Bacon movie? “Ok. The music is good. It’s old, but it’s good.” 

Quill clutched his chest and sputtered. “Kenny Loggins is a GOD and it’s a cinematic masterpiece.” 

Peter shook his head. “Man, have you even seen Star Wars?”

That stopped Quill for a moment, shut his mouth for longer than thirty seconds for the first time since they’d blasted in. 

“This theater played all three movies one summer and my mom took me for my birthday.” His face softened and Peter knew - he knew what that felt like, living in that space of memory of someone long gone. “She liked popcorn with Junior Mints and strawberry Crush.” He looked over at Peter. “They still make that?” 

“Yeah. I like orange more, though.” Quill smiled at Peter and he was warm again for a moment, like he’d forgotten the weight of all of this and how unlikely it was he’d ever taste it again. 

“Here’s the deal, kid.” Quill thrust out his hand. “We get through this, I’ll come back and buy you one. And we can revisit that whole Footloose thing.” 

Chuck saw the notice on the bulletin board of the cafe he frequented at lunch, signed up for the event on a whim. He thought that actually seeing other people (instead of just telling everyone he was seeing other people and spending all of his time obsessing about the one who got away) might spur him towards moving on. 

So he made an effort, consciously picking a shirt that he’d been complimented while wearing, shaving, and telling himself to give them all a chance. 

Except while Chuck circled the room, moving from chair to chair and trying his best to look interested in whatever people saw fit to discuss about themselves for five minutes to a complete stranger, he didn’t want to give anyone new a chance. 

He wanted something - someone - familiar. He wanted it so badly that Chuck could almost see Herc’s face, watching him across the crowded conference hall, and he could nearly hear his voice in the din of chattering hopeful singles. 

Chuck was not hopeful, not in the least. Quite the opposite, because Chuck was ruined for life, by a rangy, sarcastic, short tempered, desperately hot asshole who'd stomped on Chuck's best intentions without a second thought.

Probably why he nearly screamed when he slid into the next seat and saw familiar blue eyes, sizing him up with a lazy scan from head to toe, lingering far too long in the vicinity of Chuck's mouth. 

"Hey, kid." 

"Fuck you, Hansen." 

Herc leaned forward, wrapped his hands around Chuck's clenched fists and tugged him in. Chuck felt his resolve crumble and his anger reduce itself from a boil to a low simmer when that rumblr lit along his spine, catching in all the right places.  

"You want me to go, Chuck?" 

Words Chuck wanted-needed- to say were caught, sticky in his throat. He could only shake his head and flip his hands under Herc's grasp so they rested palm to palm, fingers linked. 

"That's not what I meant, old man." 

Realization dawned in Herc's eyes, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

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