[ The statement reruns in her head like one of those old tapes Kon had that got stuck when you put them in the player and froze on a scene, she dissects it cleanly looking for a hint of insincerity, a con, something. It's not just another job: this is a place in someone's home, with their family. She has one, but it's built on a promise Tim made to Dick, one she's always believed is tenuous. She's walked away from them before, when their jagged edges chafed against hers; the world Tim and Cassie and Kon and Bart come from and live in is so different from her own. None of them learnt as children that the collarbone was one of the easiest to break and most painful to mend. Even Eddie, he tried, but - he wasn't Khaji or Damian. They weren't made to be the finest instruments of destruction the world had seen. ]
[ Fuck, she was still calling herself Ravager, wasn't she? And out there? In space? Nobody knew Deathstroke. Nobody cared about her father or her reputation or the fact that the blood came up to her elbows. Nobody to tell her where the line was, because Quill's line matches hers. She doesn't have to kill. But she doesn't have to spare the bastards either. It was just the way of the world up there: infinite. A world of survivors, great and small. Her world. ]
[ She should answer with something flippant; the long pause has already betrayed her. ]
[ The pause makes him a little nervous. It's hard to tell what is or isn't a touchy topic for most people, and he worries that he's said the wrong thing. It wouldn't be the first time he's stuck his foot in his mouth, after all, and it definitely won't be the last. But maybe she wasn't looking for an invitation -- maybe she was looking for someone to talk her out of a lifestyle of killing?
-- Which would be totally fucking disingenuous, coming from one Peter goddamn Quill. He may be a habitual liar, he may bend the truth when it's convenient for him (or even when he just feels like it), but he would never claim to be a saint. He may not have a criminal record anymore, but that doesn't mean he's not still a crook, not still an asshole. He may not kill often, but he doesn't have compulsions against it. Not when it gets results.
And, hey. His team consists of the deadliest assassin in the galaxy, two thugs, a maniac, and a thief with delusions of grandeur. He doesn't give a shit what sort of record someone has, as long as they're not looking to keep adding to it.
He's more relieved than he'd ever admit when she finally speaks; he worried that she had hung up on him. ]
Sword, actually. [ The answer is quick (and he wouldn't admit it, but there's even a touch of fondness there). He adds wryly, ] And I'd bet my life savings that she would totally kick your ass.
I'm the leader. I mean, sure, it's unofficial, but still. There are, like, rules against beating me up. There's a charter with gilded lettering and everything. "We the passengers of the Milano, in order to spare Peter Jason Quill from getting his stupid ass beat," blah, blah, blah.
[ He's about to ask, "Legally or literally?" but then he remembers her showing off during the cave-in, remembers her mentioning, "I'm a super soldier." ]
Oh, right. Souped-up metabolism. [ Yes, Peter knows a few big words. (Although mostly he knows that one because of multiple readings of Captain America comics.) ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Yeah?
[ It's not pushing. She doesn't really need to hear it, but it's... freeing to know she's not the only one facing this. ]
Hey, what're you good at?
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Dancing. Singing. Looking handsome. Existing.
[ A pause, then he adds, ] Being humble.
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I was looking for a straight answer, actually.
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Tell you the truth? Most of my skills fall strictly in the ne'er-do-well realm. Pickpocketing. Conning. Backroom dealing.
I dunno. Shit like that. Nonconventional upbringing.
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Join the club. My idea of passing time was stringing up drug dealers and slavers and beating the shit out of them.
[ They were selling to kids :| ]
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[ He hesitates -- because he knows what the odds are of it actually happening, what with different worlds being a thing, but-- ]
You know. We've always got room for more stabby, flippy, scary folks.
If you can withstand the constant raccoon funk, anyway.
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[ The statement reruns in her head like one of those old tapes Kon had that got stuck when you put them in the player and froze on a scene, she dissects it cleanly looking for a hint of insincerity, a con, something. It's not just another job: this is a place in someone's home, with their family. She has one, but it's built on a promise Tim made to Dick, one she's always believed is tenuous. She's walked away from them before, when their jagged edges chafed against hers; the world Tim and Cassie and Kon and Bart come from and live in is so different from her own. None of them learnt as children that the collarbone was one of the easiest to break and most painful to mend. Even Eddie, he tried, but - he wasn't Khaji or Damian. They weren't made to be the finest instruments of destruction the world had seen. ]
[ Fuck, she was still calling herself Ravager, wasn't she? And out there? In space? Nobody knew Deathstroke. Nobody cared about her father or her reputation or the fact that the blood came up to her elbows. Nobody to tell her where the line was, because Quill's line matches hers. She doesn't have to kill. But she doesn't have to spare the bastards either. It was just the way of the world up there: infinite. A world of survivors, great and small. Her world. ]
[ She should answer with something flippant; the long pause has already betrayed her. ]
[ He means what he says. ]
This friend of yours. Knives or guns?
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-- Which would be totally fucking disingenuous, coming from one Peter goddamn Quill. He may be a habitual liar, he may bend the truth when it's convenient for him (or even when he just feels like it), but he would never claim to be a saint. He may not have a criminal record anymore, but that doesn't mean he's not still a crook, not still an asshole. He may not kill often, but he doesn't have compulsions against it. Not when it gets results.
And, hey. His team consists of the deadliest assassin in the galaxy, two thugs, a maniac, and a thief with delusions of grandeur. He doesn't give a shit what sort of record someone has, as long as they're not looking to keep adding to it.
He's more relieved than he'd ever admit when she finally speaks; he worried that she had hung up on him. ]
Sword, actually. [ The answer is quick (and he wouldn't admit it, but there's even a touch of fondness there). He adds wryly, ] And I'd bet my life savings that she would totally kick your ass.
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[ And then her brain catches up with what she's saying no it was supposed to be a maybe #tsunderelyfe ]
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Good thing he's not camera. Rose would probably want to punch her screen with how fucking goofy he looks. ]
Hey, don't come cryin' to me when Gamora hands your ass to you on a silver platter, Ravager.
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Who's to say we won't decide to be friends and come kick your ass, huh?
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Shit. That's a terrifying, nightmarish thought. ]
I'm the leader. I mean, sure, it's unofficial, but still. There are, like, rules against beating me up. There's a charter with gilded lettering and everything. "We the passengers of the Milano, in order to spare Peter Jason Quill from getting his stupid ass beat," blah, blah, blah.
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This is a riot. You better know some good places to brawl - I bet Rocket does.
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Yeah, probably, but there'd be drinking involved. Drax probably knows places without alcohol.
I mean, you're like, what, seven years old? Eight? You're not allowed to drink, right?
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I can't get drunk. I'm just there for the view.
[ She thought she'd mentioned it, but then again, she was used to being a far more public figure than she is now. ]
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Oh, right. Souped-up metabolism. [ Yes, Peter knows a few big words. (Although mostly he knows that one because of multiple readings of Captain America comics.) ]
Shit, that sucks.
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Hey, if a guy fighting me is going to do it while trying to puke, his problem, not mine.
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You know, you're gonna fit in with the other Lost Boys just fine.
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See you around, Ravager.