There's a place deep in his chest where his crew fit. He was aware of it in a nebulous sort of way before, but it was brought into sharp, inescapable relief in the five years when they were gone. He'll never forget how the coldness of that empty space felt, the raw edges of that wound catching painfully on the moments where he moved automatically to reach for something that wasn't there.

It's different now. But the scar tissue that built up around it is still there, even if they're mostly all where they're supposed to be again, and there's still that moment of heart-stopping fear every time he turns around to make some stupid dickhead joke and Peter isn't there. The word promise makes his chest tighten, even as some part of him wants to snap then why did you leave, why aren't you here? Part of him knows that isn't fair, but a bigger and much more stubborn part of him doesn't care. Peter's supposed to be here with him. They're supposed to be a team. He wasn't supposed to just leave.

But it is what it is, and it's not the first time the universe has decided to drive home the lesson that what he wants doesn't mean shit. He breathes out a long, slow exhale that isn't quite a sigh and doesn't respond. It turns into a huff of a laugh at the follow-up innuendo, and— and yeah, maybe it's better to move past it and keep things light. Dwelling on the empty space by his side sure ain't gonna get him off.

He closes his eyes and swallows everything else down, focusing on the warm, teasing sound of Peter's voice in his ears and the shocks of pleasure shuddering through him with every slightest movement of his hands. "Fuck yeah," he hisses out, rocking his hips up into his own grip around his cock as he presses his fingers in a little deeper. "I want your teeth at my throat and your fingers inside me." He twists his hips and gives a full-throated moan, absolutely shameless. It won't take much more. "Fuck, Peter—"