[ it's something you learn after enough years as a private investigator: sometimes people just go missing.
of course, jessica's usually the one finding those missing people, no matter how gone they seem to be, but there's the occasional case that just leads to a dead-end — the wrong kind. it always comes up feeling awkward or somehow off, like a painting hung askew or a word with all the letters in the a different order: you look at it, at all the evidence, and something isn't the way it's supposed to be.
frustrating, is what it goddamn is, and those rare and inevitably futile cases keep her up sometimes.
but she's also come (grudgingly) to accept it.
when someone seems to just vanish into thin air, when she reaches the end of the metaphorical line, she has no choice. it's how inexplicable it all is that really unsettles her, but what the hell can she even do about it, other than write it off, let her client know that there's no trail to follow (none), and try to move on? she's seen the pattern in more than just her own cases, but—
eventually you just explain it away. try to come up with something logical, like the body just hasn't been found or maybe they've somehow managed to buy their way to antartica — whatever the fuck it is.
it's too weird, otherwise. almost unnatural.
but maybe that's just the way the universe works, right? things that can't always be explained or understood, because it comes and goes with the sort of convoluted complexities that will leave any normal person grasping at straws, scrabbling for comprehension when all they'll come away with is empty air.
jessica's reached that place with a few of the disappearances.
she just never expected to be one of them.
when she wakes, it's with the most killer headache of her life.
did i really drink that much? is about the first coherent thought she manages. because what the fuck?
also why is the floor so hard?
passed out in an alley? nope, doesn't smell like shit. passed out at the bar? nope, would have gotten kicked out. passed out in her apartment? still no, because she doesn't have steel goddamn floors.
she takes a second to process that, finally cracking open an eye as she comes to terms with the fact that her cheek is resting on something cold and metal, rather than wood or carpet (or, preferably, her bed). she slowly lifts her head, squinting at her surroundings.
crates. boxes. her first impulse is to think "warehouse," but no, too small for that. everything is enclosed, a little cramped, and definitely metal, with a low hum that fills the space (and does absolutely zero favors for her throbbing head). ]
Where in the fuck...?
[ grimacing, she presses a hand to her forehead, sitting up and looking around. she can hear voices overhead, and she's automatically on high alert.
...or she would be, if her head didn't feel like it was going to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't stay still.
shit.
with a royal fuckload of effort, she drags herself to her feet, biting back the groan of accompanying discomfort. a step forward, and she stumbles, catching herself on a nearby crate — only to knock it right the floor.
...double shit.
the voices above her cut off immediately, and all she can think is, "so much for the element of surprise, dumbass." ]
[ Here's what Peter knows about life in general: shit happens.
Apparently the same life lesson extends to surviving out in space, too. When deals go south, when jobs go pear-shaped, when that priceless artifact you're sent to find turns out to be some sort of weapon of mass destruction? Shit happens. So much.
This time, the job entailed transporting goods – foodstuffs, mostly, and some medicines. Some other assholes saw fit to try and take it from the Guardians, which meant dogfights in space and Peter piloting the Milano with all the recklessness the Ravagers had taught him, brow wrinkled and lips pressed together and that flicker of excitement in his eyes. When their tail's firepower proved to be too intimidating to try and outrun, Rocket shouts out a suicidal plan.
Flying straight into a nearby electromagnetic storm to lose their pursuers.
They argued over it for a few precious seconds, but as a shot singed a path across the wing of the Milano, Peter shouted a curse and veered toward the storm.
The storm, thankfully, didn't kill them as they thought it would. Didn't crush the hull with all the ease of wadding up a sheet of foil. It did fuck with the power a bit, made the lights flicker and die, only to come back to life with a brief hum. The Milano's scanners go fucking nuts, too, but given the nature of ion storms, everyone ignores the frankly ridiculous energy readings they get.
The ship judders once, twice, then a third time, but they manage to fly out of the storm without incident. They take a calming breath, then immediately start pointing fingers as to whose fault everything was.
Thankfully, the heavy, metallic clatter of their cargo interrupts them – the turbulence likely jostled the crates – and all eyes go to Peter.
"Right, yeah," he grumbles, "don't worry, everyone. Don't bother getting up. I'll take care of it."
Peter's still grumbling, in fact, when he finally trudges down the ladder to the cargo bay. He hops down the last few steps, takes two steps into the area, and blinks as he glances up.
... Then blinks again.
Then, yeah, pretty much just stares. ]
... Um.
[ There are a lot of questions Peter should ask, right now, as he stares at the woman in his cargo bay. Like, Who the hell are you? or How the fuck did you get on my ship? or What in the fuck? But he doesn't. What he says instead is, ]
[ the sound of footsteps immediately draws jessica's attention to the ladder leading into— what even is this place? a basement?
(spaceship isn't exactly at the top of her list of guesses right now.)
she refocuses on the man coming down, and, well, he looks just about as surprised to see her as she is to be seen. taking a quick moment to size him up, she leans away from the boxes she'd braced herself against.
well, fortunately, her thought processes hover right around peter's as far as being just as baffled by her appearance in his(?) space, and the first thing she thinks to ask ends up being, ]
Who the hell are you?
[ jessica's oh-so eloquent social graces strike again. ]
Pretty sure that's the question I should be asking.
[ And now that the initial shock has worn off, he takes a wary glance around, just to be sure they don't have any other surprise visitors. Seems the woman is alone, though, and he takes a cautious step forward. (He suddenly wishes he had his blasters, but they're sitting on the table on the main deck.) ]
[ jess immediately tenses as peter steps forward, adopting a slightly more defensive posture (though she has to aggressively bite back a grimace when it makes her head throb). she's not worried about the guy standing in front of her — mostly because she's pretty sure she can take him if he tries anything — but she's feeling all around tetchy. strange surroundings with an equally unfamiliar dude?
[ This, repeated flatly, and he stares at her with open disbelief.]
You woke up on my floor?
[ This time when he echoes it, it's with that incredulous sort of edge that borders on hysterical, because— ]
That's impossible. We're out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. [ And still on the edge of an ion storm, to boot. They definitely hadn't used the tractor beam on anything, hadn't smuggled any folks into their cargo, and they definitely didn't have anything by way of teleportation.
There's less alarm in his voice when he speaks again, his tone morphing into something frustrated and demanding. ]
[ Peter stays silent for a second or two longer, still caught somewhere between annoyed and confused – because she has to know how she got here. People don’t just appear out of nowhere. He might live in space, and he might have been exposed to tech he would have never believed possible, but this seems pretty absolute.
(No one tell Peter about the Bifrost.)
But they’re clearly getting nowhere with this line of conversation – either because she’s telling the truth, or she’s being willfully unhelpful, so he finally answers the question: ]
You’re on my ship. Which is currently still in flight. So you can kinda see how I’m gettin’ caught up on how the hell you got in here.
[ Peter already saw that flash of shock on her face, even as she tries to hide it, and it douses some of the anger roiling in his gut. Could still be an act, of course, but if it is, it’s a damn good one. And it’s gratifying, at least, knowing that they’re both really fucking confused. ]
Once more for the people in the back. [ Echoed back with an unimpressed look of his own – because Peter’s a strong believer in the idea that turnabout is fair play. His voice betrays the frayed edges of his patience. ] You’re in space, sister.
[ The ship rocks slightly – even with the ship coasting on the edges of the storm, it’s still a goddamn storm. Peter stumbles forward a step or two, bracing himself on one of the heavier crates tied down to the deck. ]
Viridian Cluster, specifically. While my ship is getting fucked, so you picked one hell of a time to just wake up here.
[ that hard look in her eyes makes it exceedingly clear that she still doesn't believe him. sure, the incident in new york brought the existence of aliens, of things bigger than earth to light, but—
how the hell could she go from a little too much booze in a seedy bar to the middle of wherever the hell the "viridian cluster" is in space?
she catches herself again as everything lurches forward, though she doesn't look away from peter for an instant.
...of course, this also kind of helps with the whole "in space" thing. or at least, in motion and not-on-solid-ground. (could still be a plane, though, right? oh god, please let it be a plane. please let it turn out that this dude is just trying to bullshit her and doing a really good job of it..) ]
No offense, but I'm having a little trouble with my suspension of disbelief here, so I'd appreciate some proof that isn't just because some random— [ she gestures vaguely at him. ] —space guy says so.
[ she's also not entirely convinced that he isn't responsible for her random appearance here, so that wariness is still edging into her tone — though it's definitely superseded by her aggravation at this point. ]
What, you want me to whip out my tentacles or something?
[ Not that he has any to whip out, but frankly, this entire conversation is ridiculous for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that he shouldn't be having it, because she shouldn't be here. ]
How the hell am I supposed to know that you're not here to fuck us over or something? I'm supposed to take your word on that?
[ Because that’s the important issue, here, clearly. Tentacled folks are friends, stranger.
The ship rocks again, accompanied by the brief flickering of the overhead lights, and Peter scowls up at them. ]
... Hang on.
[ And he turns, climbing up the ladder and poking his head out of the hatchway to shout up at the crew — “What the hell are you doing to my ship?”
He’s answered by a few voices, muted by distance, two masculine, one feminine, one tiny, and all of them varying degrees of annoyed. And all of them in a different language – at least one of which is more squeaks and hisses, not unlike an animal. Peter’s translator implant makes sense of it easily, which is why he yells back, “Stop trying to kill us. Please?”
(Maybe a more intelligent person would also add in something about having a situation in the cargo bay, but Peter is still on the fence as to whether or not a lone, slightly hungover woman is a situation.)
Hopping back down, he frowns at her, sizing her up. ]
... Okay, so. Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell would I want with you?
[ hey, her knowledge of tentacled aliens is pretty limited here — and not exactly the most pleasant of associations, given general human pop culture. it's not like she knows tentacled aliens out in reality are actually pretty okay.
the continued turbulence on the ship isn't reassuring by any means, and she grabs onto a crate again to keep herself vertical (because all this shaking around is not helping her headache).
...it's the other voices in the very weird tones that really throw her for a loop, though, because she absolutely did not pick up a single word of whatever those squeaks were.
(oh god, maybe there actually are aliens here. great.)
she focuses on peter when he drops onto the deck again, frowning right back at him. she stares silently for a moment, and then, without a word, reaches over for one of the heavy crates that she'd managed to topple. with one hand (and obviously zero effort, she lifts the crate, and sets it back with the others like it weighs just as much as a bag of feathers. ]
There's a few things.
[ —is about the best answer she has for him.
(she also likes to hope it doubles as a "don't try anything funny" demonstration.) ]
Also, why the hell are you speaking English, and all of— that up there was definitely not?
Edited (lily read the tag better before u reply mmk) 2017-01-10 06:07 (UTC)
[ As she lifts up the crate, Peter silently upgrades the state of affairs from "annoyance" to "predicament." ]
O...kay.
[ He drags the word out over at least a couple of seconds, and also resolves to keep his distance, in case she decides to get hands-on in resolving their disagreements.
His gaze is still flicking between her and the crate when she asks her question, and absently, he taps on his neck, just beneath his ear. Distantly, ]
Translator implant.
[ Courtesy of the Ravagers, his first few minutes in space – once they had managed to get a hold of him, anyway. He had spent a lot of those first few moments screaming and thrashing and trying to run. Routine upgrades means he doesn't have to learn anymore languages than he needs or wants to – though he makes a habit of picking up the really rude shit – and also means that everything comes out in a language he understands.
He pauses, runs through her question again in his head as an afterthought, then, ]
[ He should probably correct her, tell her that he’s actually only half human, the other half being a gigantic question mark, but that’s probably just splitting hairs, really. And considering how badly she took his tentacle joke, being told that he’s half alien probably wouldn’t go over too well right now. ]
... Can’t say that I can, no. [ But if he could, that’d be awesome. But he’s also pretty sure the last time he was on Earth, no one could lift a car.
Except, maybe, Captain America, but that guy was, you know. Long dead.
He bristles a little at her continued questioning, but not because of the question itself – mostly, he feels like he’s suddenly on the defensive, and he doesn’t really like it. ]
You know, you’re asking a lot of personal questions for someone who just cropped up on my ship.
[ it doesn't help that it's literally her job to dig things up, so asking questions is kind of the natural progression for her here — she's just also pretty pushy about finding shit out sometimes, unfortunately. ]
Sorry I wanna know about the random dude whose ship I'm suddenly on. In space. Definitely not on earth.
My bad.
[ sarcasm drips from every word, with just a hint of aggravation.
her head decides to give a particularly nasty throb at that moment, and she braces herself again, pressing a hand over her eyes. she grimaces, biting the response back and looking out at peter. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
idefk with this mess lmk if i need to edit??
of course, jessica's usually the one finding those missing people, no matter how gone they seem to be, but there's the occasional case that just leads to a dead-end — the wrong kind. it always comes up feeling awkward or somehow off, like a painting hung askew or a word with all the letters in the a different order: you look at it, at all the evidence, and something isn't the way it's supposed to be.
frustrating, is what it goddamn is, and those rare and inevitably futile cases keep her up sometimes.
but she's also come (grudgingly) to accept it.
when someone seems to just vanish into thin air, when she reaches the end of the metaphorical line, she has no choice. it's how inexplicable it all is that really unsettles her, but what the hell can she even do about it, other than write it off, let her client know that there's no trail to follow (none), and try to move on? she's seen the pattern in more than just her own cases, but—
eventually you just explain it away. try to come up with something logical, like the body just hasn't been found or maybe they've somehow managed to buy their way to antartica — whatever the fuck it is.
it's too weird, otherwise. almost unnatural.
but maybe that's just the way the universe works, right? things that can't always be explained or understood, because it comes and goes with the sort of convoluted complexities that will leave any normal person grasping at straws, scrabbling for comprehension when all they'll come away with is empty air.
jessica's reached that place with a few of the disappearances.
she just never expected to be one of them.
when she wakes, it's with the most killer headache of her life.
did i really drink that much? is about the first coherent thought she manages. because what the fuck?
also why is the floor so hard?
passed out in an alley? nope, doesn't smell like shit. passed out at the bar? nope, would have gotten kicked out. passed out in her apartment? still no, because she doesn't have steel goddamn floors.
she takes a second to process that, finally cracking open an eye as she comes to terms with the fact that her cheek is resting on something cold and metal, rather than wood or carpet (or, preferably, her bed). she slowly lifts her head, squinting at her surroundings.
crates. boxes. her first impulse is to think "warehouse," but no, too small for that. everything is enclosed, a little cramped, and definitely metal, with a low hum that fills the space (and does absolutely zero favors for her throbbing head). ]
Where in the fuck...?
[ grimacing, she presses a hand to her forehead, sitting up and looking around. she can hear voices overhead, and she's automatically on high alert.
...or she would be, if her head didn't feel like it was going to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't stay still.
shit.
with a royal fuckload of effort, she drags herself to her feet, biting back the groan of accompanying discomfort. a step forward, and she stumbles, catching herself on a nearby crate — only to knock it right the floor.
...double shit.
the voices above her cut off immediately, and all she can think is, "so much for the element of surprise, dumbass." ]
no subject
Apparently the same life lesson extends to surviving out in space, too. When deals go south, when jobs go pear-shaped, when that priceless artifact you're sent to find turns out to be some sort of weapon of mass destruction? Shit happens. So much.
This time, the job entailed transporting goods – foodstuffs, mostly, and some medicines. Some other assholes saw fit to try and take it from the Guardians, which meant dogfights in space and Peter piloting the Milano with all the recklessness the Ravagers had taught him, brow wrinkled and lips pressed together and that flicker of excitement in his eyes. When their tail's firepower proved to be too intimidating to try and outrun, Rocket shouts out a suicidal plan.
Flying straight into a nearby electromagnetic storm to lose their pursuers.
They argued over it for a few precious seconds, but as a shot singed a path across the wing of the Milano, Peter shouted a curse and veered toward the storm.
The storm, thankfully, didn't kill them as they thought it would. Didn't crush the hull with all the ease of wadding up a sheet of foil. It did fuck with the power a bit, made the lights flicker and die, only to come back to life with a brief hum. The Milano's scanners go fucking nuts, too, but given the nature of ion storms, everyone ignores the frankly ridiculous energy readings they get.
The ship judders once, twice, then a third time, but they manage to fly out of the storm without incident. They take a calming breath, then immediately start pointing fingers as to whose fault everything was.
Thankfully, the heavy, metallic clatter of their cargo interrupts them – the turbulence likely jostled the crates – and all eyes go to Peter.
"Right, yeah," he grumbles, "don't worry, everyone. Don't bother getting up. I'll take care of it."
Peter's still grumbling, in fact, when he finally trudges down the ladder to the cargo bay. He hops down the last few steps, takes two steps into the area, and blinks as he glances up.
... Then blinks again.
Then, yeah, pretty much just stares. ]
... Um.
[ There are a lot of questions Peter should ask, right now, as he stares at the woman in his cargo bay. Like, Who the hell are you? or How the fuck did you get on my ship? or What in the fuck? But he doesn't. What he says instead is, ]
... Hey there?
no subject
(spaceship isn't exactly at the top of her list of guesses right now.)
she refocuses on the man coming down, and, well, he looks just about as surprised to see her as she is to be seen. taking a quick moment to size him up, she leans away from the boxes she'd braced herself against.
well, fortunately, her thought processes hover right around peter's as far as being just as baffled by her appearance in his(?) space, and the first thing she thinks to ask ends up being, ]
Who the hell are you?
[ jessica's oh-so eloquent social graces strike again. ]
no subject
[ And now that the initial shock has worn off, he takes a wary glance around, just to be sure they don't have any other surprise visitors. Seems the woman is alone, though, and he takes a cautious step forward. (He suddenly wishes he had his blasters, but they're sitting on the table on the main deck.) ]
How the hell did you get in here?
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no thanks. ]
I woke up on your floor.
Clue me in: where exactly is "here?"
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[ This, repeated flatly, and he stares at her with open disbelief.]
You woke up on my floor?
[ This time when he echoes it, it's with that incredulous sort of edge that borders on hysterical, because— ]
That's impossible. We're out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. [ And still on the edge of an ion storm, to boot. They definitely hadn't used the tractor beam on anything, hadn't smuggled any folks into their cargo, and they definitely didn't have anything by way of teleportation.
There's less alarm in his voice when he speaks again, his tone morphing into something frustrated and demanding. ]
How did you seriously get here?
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Wow, once more for the people in the back, then: I woke up. On your goddamn. Floor.
That's all I know. One minute, I'm having a decent night in a bar, and the next, I'm here with the hangover from hell.
[ her tone is flat, edging into obvious aggravation, because she is just as frustrated and confused as he is. ]
So again, where the fuck am I?
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(No one tell Peter about the Bifrost.)
But they’re clearly getting nowhere with this line of conversation – either because she’s telling the truth, or she’s being willfully unhelpful, so he finally answers the question: ]
You’re on my ship. Which is currently still in flight. So you can kinda see how I’m gettin’ caught up on how the hell you got in here.
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clearly.
except there's the whole "in flight" thing and the fact that planes aren't ships, and—
hold the fucking phone. ]
By "ship," you mean "plane," right?
[ she really needs some clarification here. ]
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By "ship" I mean "ship." As in—
[ A pause, and his frown deepens all the more. ]
You realize you're in space right now, right?
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this is definitely jess, needing a moment to reboot her brain.
the genuine shock in her expression is quickly smoothed away in favor of one of her more familiar glowers, and she tries to look unimpressed. ]
Goddamn hilarious. Tell me where we actually are, asshole.
[ because space? that is sure not an option. ]
no subject
Once more for the people in the back. [ Echoed back with an unimpressed look of his own – because Peter’s a strong believer in the idea that turnabout is fair play. His voice betrays the frayed edges of his patience. ] You’re in space, sister.
[ The ship rocks slightly – even with the ship coasting on the edges of the storm, it’s still a goddamn storm. Peter stumbles forward a step or two, bracing himself on one of the heavier crates tied down to the deck. ]
Viridian Cluster, specifically. While my ship is getting fucked, so you picked one hell of a time to just wake up here.
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how the hell could she go from a little too much booze in a seedy bar to the middle of wherever the hell the "viridian cluster" is in space?
she catches herself again as everything lurches forward, though she doesn't look away from peter for an instant.
...of course, this also kind of helps with the whole "in space" thing. or at least, in motion and not-on-solid-ground. (could still be a plane, though, right? oh god, please let it be a plane. please let it turn out that this dude is just trying to bullshit her and doing a really good job of it..) ]
No offense, but I'm having a little trouble with my suspension of disbelief here, so I'd appreciate some proof that isn't just because some random— [ she gestures vaguely at him. ] —space guy says so.
[ she's also not entirely convinced that he isn't responsible for her random appearance here, so that wariness is still edging into her tone — though it's definitely superseded by her aggravation at this point. ]
no subject
[ Not that he has any to whip out, but frankly, this entire conversation is ridiculous for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that he shouldn't be having it, because she shouldn't be here. ]
How the hell am I supposed to know that you're not here to fuck us over or something? I'm supposed to take your word on that?
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[ maybe she doesn't believe she's in space yet, but she does at least acknowledge that this big metal thing is moving. that's impossible to ignore. ]
Also seriously, don't have tentacles. Or if you do, keep them to yourself. That sounds really damn creepy.
[ how is she supposed to know that he doesn't, is the real question here. ]
no subject
[ Because that’s the important issue, here, clearly. Tentacled folks are friends, stranger.
The ship rocks again, accompanied by the brief flickering of the overhead lights, and Peter scowls up at them. ]
... Hang on.
[ And he turns, climbing up the ladder and poking his head out of the hatchway to shout up at the crew — “What the hell are you doing to my ship?”
He’s answered by a few voices, muted by distance, two masculine, one feminine, one tiny, and all of them varying degrees of annoyed. And all of them in a different language – at least one of which is more squeaks and hisses, not unlike an animal. Peter’s translator implant makes sense of it easily, which is why he yells back, “Stop trying to kill us. Please?”
(Maybe a more intelligent person would also add in something about having a situation in the cargo bay, but Peter is still on the fence as to whether or not a lone, slightly hungover woman is a situation.)
Hopping back down, he frowns at her, sizing her up. ]
... Okay, so. Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the hell would I want with you?
no subject
the continued turbulence on the ship isn't reassuring by any means, and she grabs onto a crate again to keep herself vertical (because all this shaking around is not helping her headache).
...it's the other voices in the very weird tones that really throw her for a loop, though, because she absolutely did not pick up a single word of whatever those squeaks were.
(oh god, maybe there actually are aliens here. great.)
she focuses on peter when he drops onto the deck again, frowning right back at him. she stares silently for a moment, and then, without a word, reaches over for one of the heavy crates that she'd managed to topple. with one hand (and obviously zero effort, she lifts the crate, and sets it back with the others like it weighs just as much as a bag of feathers. ]
There's a few things.
[ —is about the best answer she has for him.
(she also likes to hope it doubles as a "don't try anything funny" demonstration.) ]
Also, why the hell are you speaking English, and all of— that up there was definitely not?
no subject
O...kay.
[ He drags the word out over at least a couple of seconds, and also resolves to keep his distance, in case she decides to get hands-on in resolving their disagreements.
His gaze is still flicking between her and the crate when she asks her question, and absently, he taps on his neck, just beneath his ear. Distantly, ]
Translator implant.
[ Courtesy of the Ravagers, his first few minutes in space – once they had managed to get a hold of him, anyway. He had spent a lot of those first few moments screaming and thrashing and trying to run. Routine upgrades means he doesn't have to learn anymore languages than he needs or wants to – though he makes a habit of picking up the really rude shit – and also means that everything comes out in a language he understands.
He pauses, runs through her question again in his head as an afterthought, then, ]
... You know English?
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but also a little inconvenient for her. ]
Yeah? You were expecting French or...?
[ because she's got a little of that from high school. spoiler: it's terrible. ]
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You want me to keep going, or—?
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[ gramo-whatsian?
space is weird. ]
Either way, I can understand you, so maybe you wanna explain why you're speaking English. Are you human?
[ that's the real question here.
and if yes, how the hell did he get here? ]
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[ Grumbled out. There are rules, you know. Like, this being his ship and all. That probably entitles him to first dibs on questions, right?
(That's not how captaining works, Quill.) ]
But I am. Human, I mean. [ A pause, then, warily, ] You?
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Just as human as you.
[ she gives a dismissive shrug. ]
Unless you can lift a car, but you know.
[ can you lift a car, quill. can you. ]
Are you from Earth originally?
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... Can’t say that I can, no. [ But if he could, that’d be awesome. But he’s also pretty sure the last time he was on Earth, no one could lift a car.
Except, maybe, Captain America, but that guy was, you know. Long dead.
He bristles a little at her continued questioning, but not because of the question itself – mostly, he feels like he’s suddenly on the defensive, and he doesn’t really like it. ]
You know, you’re asking a lot of personal questions for someone who just cropped up on my ship.
no subject
Sorry I wanna know about the random dude whose ship I'm suddenly on. In space. Definitely not on earth.
My bad.
[ sarcasm drips from every word, with just a hint of aggravation.
her head decides to give a particularly nasty throb at that moment, and she braces herself again, pressing a hand over her eyes. she grimaces, biting the response back and looking out at peter. ]
You gonna answer or not?
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