quillin-it
Peter sat up suddenly, mouth full of blood, he spat it out onto the floor of his precious Milano. A part of him died inside because of it, but there was nothing to do for it now.
He clutches at his stomach, the movement involved in sitting up pulled at the deep gashes across his torso and caused him to wince. They had long since scabbed over, but they were far from healed. They were too gnarly for any of the medical equipment he kept on board to help much.
When he recovered, he looked over at Tabby, forcing a smile despite the fact that he didn’t feel like smiling in the slightest, "Yeah, you have to be. Where else are you gonna go?”
Tabby winced as Peter coughed up blood. She'd clean it up once she felt that the man was okay to be left alone for a moment. They both had had their share of gruesome injuries, but Star-Lord was banged up; so much so that it was worrying his mutant friend.
"Very funny," she replied, though she wasn't laughing. Peter was attempting to both smile and joke in order to make things feeling a bit less grave, and a bit more familiar. She would do the same. "Yes, I get it, I'm homeless. I'm clearly just here because I like the hard bunk."
She gave the man's hand an assuring squeeze, "I put in the coordinates of a hospital close by. Do you need anything? Be reasonable though, don't try to milk this."