[ Peter probably should've seen it coming, really, Gamora telling him in no uncertain terms that the two of them were going to start training. Part of him is surprised it didn't come earlier in the formation of their team, really, when the name Guardians of the Galaxy sort of stuck, when they all came to the tacit agreement that maybe they should stick together, when they were presented with a newly repaired Milano and all filed onto the ship without complaint.
Because he knows he's something of the weak link, here. Rocket is modded to hell and good with tech. Drax is practically a brick wall incarnate. Gamora is the galaxy's deadliest assassin. Groot is nigh indestructible, as they found out after his stint with shattering into a bajillion pieces. And Peter...
... well. He owns the ship.
He can hold his own just fine in a fight, though, against normal dudes; he managed just fine in the clusterfuck of the Dark Aster, after all. What the Ravagers lacked in any kind of formal training, they made up for in decades of experience in bar brawls and morally suspect jobs. So Peter knows how to throw a punch, knows how to duck one, too. Knows how to fight fucking dirty, if necessary, using his teeth and nails and occasional under-the-belt kicks that a more honorable person would find reprehensible. But Peter's a survivor, and he's going to damn well survive.
It's when they start running into other folks just as big and burly as Drax, or just as well trained as Gamora, that things get a little touch and go for him. Usually Peter's happy to keep his distance, taking potshots where he can, but sometimes—
—sometimes he ends up in dingy, rundown clubs, with a laser sight flickering on his chest.
A liability, a small part of him whispers, and Gamora only confirms it: to make you less of a risk to the rest of us.
Peter complains, still, because of course he complains. He bitches about nearly everything. But god damn, was Peter not prepared for how that comment stung.
So here they are now, sparring in the cargo bay. Gamora is taking it easy on him, which Peter supposes is kind of the point. He knows how she fights; he's seen it over and over again during the course of their work. He experienced it firsthand on Xandar, but even while Peter was in her way, she still held back, even then. She didn't have aims to kill him at the start, even though it would have neatly solved all her problems.
(Peter, rather foolishly, had thought he handled himself pretty well. Sure, it took a whole lot of distractions for him to get the upper hand, but he made it out alright. It's only later that he realizes that if she had really set her mind to it? He'd be dead at least twenty times over, just from that fight alone.)
And when Peter fights, he tends to depend on his tools, his wits, his speed. Strip that away from him, match him with someone who's just better than him, and you get this:
Peter, swinging at Gamora – only instead of Gamora, it's empty air. And how did she move so fa—
Only he can't finish that thought, because the momentum of his swing takes him over her waiting foot, trips him up entirely, and he twists as he falls. His back slams into the deck, knocks the breath from his lungs, and he stares up at the overhead in a daze. And isn't this a familiar sight, Gamora staring down at him, her hair cascading over her shoulder, only instead of frustrated and angry, like that day on Xandar, she mostly looks smug. ]
... Point made.
[ This, on something of a wheeze. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, rubbing at the back of his head, feeling for any bumps. ]
Should we have, like, laid practice mats down or something?
step on him!!!
Because he knows he's something of the weak link, here. Rocket is modded to hell and good with tech. Drax is practically a brick wall incarnate. Gamora is the galaxy's deadliest assassin. Groot is nigh indestructible, as they found out after his stint with shattering into a bajillion pieces. And Peter...
... well. He owns the ship.
He can hold his own just fine in a fight, though, against normal dudes; he managed just fine in the clusterfuck of the Dark Aster, after all. What the Ravagers lacked in any kind of formal training, they made up for in decades of experience in bar brawls and morally suspect jobs. So Peter knows how to throw a punch, knows how to duck one, too. Knows how to fight fucking dirty, if necessary, using his teeth and nails and occasional under-the-belt kicks that a more honorable person would find reprehensible. But Peter's a survivor, and he's going to damn well survive.
It's when they start running into other folks just as big and burly as Drax, or just as well trained as Gamora, that things get a little touch and go for him. Usually Peter's happy to keep his distance, taking potshots where he can, but sometimes—
—sometimes he ends up in dingy, rundown clubs, with a laser sight flickering on his chest.
A liability, a small part of him whispers, and Gamora only confirms it: to make you less of a risk to the rest of us.
Peter complains, still, because of course he complains. He bitches about nearly everything. But god damn, was Peter not prepared for how that comment stung.
So here they are now, sparring in the cargo bay. Gamora is taking it easy on him, which Peter supposes is kind of the point. He knows how she fights; he's seen it over and over again during the course of their work. He experienced it firsthand on Xandar, but even while Peter was in her way, she still held back, even then. She didn't have aims to kill him at the start, even though it would have neatly solved all her problems.
(Peter, rather foolishly, had thought he handled himself pretty well. Sure, it took a whole lot of distractions for him to get the upper hand, but he made it out alright. It's only later that he realizes that if she had really set her mind to it? He'd be dead at least twenty times over, just from that fight alone.)
And when Peter fights, he tends to depend on his tools, his wits, his speed. Strip that away from him, match him with someone who's just better than him, and you get this:
Peter, swinging at Gamora – only instead of Gamora, it's empty air. And how did she move so fa—
Only he can't finish that thought, because the momentum of his swing takes him over her waiting foot, trips him up entirely, and he twists as he falls. His back slams into the deck, knocks the breath from his lungs, and he stares up at the overhead in a daze. And isn't this a familiar sight, Gamora staring down at him, her hair cascading over her shoulder, only instead of frustrated and angry, like that day on Xandar, she mostly looks smug. ]
... Point made.
[ This, on something of a wheeze. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, rubbing at the back of his head, feeling for any bumps. ]
Should we have, like, laid practice mats down or something?