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In the most polite way possible, this multiverse shit is really starting to get on Quill’s nerves.
It was already pretty ridiculous, but once he was forced to fight an alternate version of himself who was about fifty times more irritating, he decided he was well and truly done. Screw this. Screw Doom, that evil bastard. He really wants out, but with his luck, he’ll be fighting alternate universe Iron Men until he dies when one of them puts him into an early grave.
At least Marc is here with him today, having been called by Khonshu, apparently. He fights like a trained professional—actually, now that Quill thinks about it, he may very well be one—and his stealth has granted the team far more grace than they likely would’ve been given without him.
Quill’s in the air now, shooting upwards with his boots to try and find a good vantage point where he can pick off the enemies. Of course he just so happens to land next to Marc, bouncing crescent darts off of an ankh and slicing through enemies like a hot knife to butter. “Spector,” Quill greets.
“Quill,” Marc grunts back, entirely concentrated on the enemies in front of them. Quill does his best to help out, picking off enemies with his Element Guns, but his bullets don’t ricochet the way Marc’s darts do. Sucks to not be an avatar of the moon, he supposes. “How’s your raccoon friend?”
Quill chuckles lightly to himself, watching a bullet burn straight through an alternate Venom. “Not a raccoon, as he would say. Also, angry. How’s your Moon God?”
“About the same,” Marc quips, leaping to his feet once his ankh is spotted and destroyed. “C’mon.” Quill is after him instantly, hot on his tail as the two of them duck into a hallway and head towards a different vantage point. Best to keep their rivals on their toes.
They settle at their new position and repeat the same routine: ankh, darts, bullets. Luckily, their enemies seem to not know where they are. Or maybe they just don’t care, too busy fighting Quill and Marc’s teammates on the ground.
Eventually, it starts to feel like they’ve reached a standstill. No one is really moving in either direction, gaining or losing any ground, and Quill starts to itch for more action. He twirls his guns in his hands and turns to Marc. “I think I’m gonna head down,” he says. “See what I can—”
He stops dead when he hears a familiar charging noise, turning his head to the sky to see another goddamn Iron Man, aiming a particularly large blast at him and Marc. He half-registers exclaiming look out before his boots are activated and he’s shooting to safety, landing inelegantly on his ass and skidding back a little before stopping. He hears the blast impact and sprints back, looking for a white suit amid the destruction. “Marc?” he calls, a little frantically, “Marc!”
“Here,” a voice replies distantly, and Quill spots him laying a few feet away, thankfully in one piece. His cape has been tossed haphazardly over his head, obscuring his mask from view.
Quill rushes over. “Oh, jeez, dude, thank God you’re okay.” He leans down and pulls Marc’s cape away from his face. “I was worried that Stark had blown—”
He blanks completely when the cape is out of the way. The blast impact seems to have shattered half of Marc’s mask clean off, the other half attached and sharp where it meets the centre of his face. Quill can kind of get a good look at him like this: pretty brown eyes and a few dark curls peeking out from his hood, sticking to his forehead. Small cuts are scattered across brown skin, likely from the broken mask.
Marc is… really attractive, and Quill can only see one half of him.
“… you to bits,” he finishes unceremoniously. He clears his throat. Suddenly his mouth feels dry. “Uh. Hey, man. We should probably get you away from the fight, so. Just. Come with me, and I’ll—”
His ears are suddenly ringing, his neck snapping abruptly to the side. He feels an impact at the side of his head, and he’s able to use enough brainpower to recognize Iron Fist, grinning at him and mumbling some words to him. Quill thinks he might’ve said shouldn’t’ve gotten distracted, but he’s not really sure. The only thing he can be sure of right now is that he’s almost definitely concussed after a hit like that. Iron Fist… yeah, no kidding. If Quill wasn’t wearing his visor he thinks that punch could’ve bashed his skull in.
“Oww,” he mumbles against the ground, trying to push himself back into a standing position. He’s stopped by Iron Fist—no, the grasp on his shoulder is gentle, he’s stopped by Not Iron Fist—carefully pushing him back down.
“Dealt with him. He’s gone,” Marc huffs quietly. Quill does his best to nod. His vision is blurry. He’s faintly aware of a strong arm hooking around his waist, and then suddenly he’s being pulled upwards and to the side. He’s put down on a rooftop somewhere and his face is pulled forward to meet Marc’s, who is staring at him and wearing an unreadable expression.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he tries to joke, earning him an eye roll as Marc fiddles with his visor, eventually finding the button that collapses it. He’s at work immediately, concentrated solely on examining Quill’s pupils.
A hand reaches out to grab Quill’s chin, tilting his face upwards so he can get a better look. “Okay,” he mutters. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Peter Jason Quill,” Quill replies, rubbing at his eyes. He’s got a pretty bad headache and sitting on a rooftop the sunlight is beating down on isn’t really helping his case. “Urgh.”
“Don’t cover your eyes. I need to check them,” Marc commands, and so Quill drops his hands uselessly to his sides, pouting. “And what were you thinking, Peter Jason Quill, getting distracted like that?”
Quill shrugs innocently. “I was thinking… about you, mostly,” he says, a grin accompanying his words. And… oh, is it just the probable concussion, or did he make Marc Spector, Fist of Khonshu, Moon Knight, blush?
Marc lets go of Quill’s face, sitting back. “Definitely a concussion,” he murmurs. “I’m going back to help the team. You,” he says, pointing at Quill, accusatory, “stay here until I come get you.”
“Yes, doc,” Quill mumbles, arms crossed. “You want a kiss for good luck?”
Marc looks completely and utterly exasperated when he waves Quill off. “Concussion,” Quill hears him saying to himself as he leaps from the rooftop back into the fray. “Goddamn concussions.”
Ah, well, Quill thinks, watching him go. Maybe Marc will take him up on that offer next time.