Well, whatever. It'll be fine, as long as he just keeps using nicknames.
She laughs behind her hand as the bartender leaves another tumbler of some emerald-colored alcohol, and Peter can barely remember what joke it was he'd just told as he pulls the glass closer. He lifts it by the glass's lip, holds it between his fingertips. He's-- he feels really fucking distracted. He's off his game tonight, but -- was it Drulyara? -- seems to be playing along with him well enough. There's something sharp in her gaze that he finds compelling, like she knows more than she's letting on.
It also helps that she's seriously easy on the eyes. Curves in all the places he finds attractive, and-- she's blonde. He's been going for a lot of blondes, lately. He tries not to examine that too closely.
(Because he's been running from this problem the only way he knows how. He doesn't know what's happening with him, but all he can fucking think about, lately, is him, and that blissful feeling on the rooftop, that completeness. He can only think about how much he wants to experience it again, but he's terrified of what it means.
Because Peter Jason Quill does not do relationships. And he hates that some weird, alien trigger has decided on-- what? A boyfriend? A mate? A soulmate? What? -- for him, before his mind even has a chance to catch up.
Because Peter knows what love looks like. It's lonely and sad. It's a quiet house and an extra seat at the dinner table, "just in case." It's watching the night sky every time there's a meteor shower, waiting with bated breath, and heading back inside disappointed. It's reliving the same stories through rose-colored lenses. It's wasting away on sheets that aren't your own, in a room that smells of disinfectant and antiseptic, still holding out hope that they'll be there for you.
And thanks, but no thanks. Peter doesn't want any of that.)
He smiles, leans in close. Hey, Beautiful, what would you say to finding somewhere more private? You know, get to know each other on a more... personal level?
She hums thoughtfully and leans in as well. His breath hitches, and he thinks she's coming in for a kiss, but instead--
"Do you remember what my name is, darling?"
Oh, fuck.
Of course I do, and he says it with a laugh. What kinda asshole do you take me for?
"What is it, then?"
Shit, shit, shit. He ventures a guess, but says it with utmost confidence: Dahylia.
It's at that moment that the glass flies out of his hand, and the two of them yelp in surprise. The emerald liquid sloshes on the bartop, and Peter fucking seethes. He knows exactly what happened, and Lord help him, he's going to fucking throttle that guy--
Peter's distracted from his rage when the blonde harumphs and gathers up her things. "It's Preela," she tells him sharply, "you prick." And then she glares daggers at him as he sweeps out of the bar.
He apologizes to the bartender, who's glaring at him too as he wipes up the mess, and leaves him a big tip. He breathes, in and out -- once, twice, a million fucking times, -- and his hands are clenched into shaking fists as he tries to calm himself down. He is not going to let that guy get to him. Absolutely not. He is not going to give Charlie that satisfaction. He is not going to go over there and tell him off. He is not. He absolutely. Is. Not.
But then he's at Charlie's table before he realizes it, hands splayed on the surface as he leans in. ]
that drink was expensive god damn you
Shit.
What was it?
Deyreen? Daneeya? Shit.
Well, whatever. It'll be fine, as long as he just keeps using nicknames.
She laughs behind her hand as the bartender leaves another tumbler of some emerald-colored alcohol, and Peter can barely remember what joke it was he'd just told as he pulls the glass closer. He lifts it by the glass's lip, holds it between his fingertips. He's-- he feels really fucking distracted. He's off his game tonight, but -- was it Drulyara? -- seems to be playing along with him well enough. There's something sharp in her gaze that he finds compelling, like she knows more than she's letting on.
It also helps that she's seriously easy on the eyes. Curves in all the places he finds attractive, and-- she's blonde. He's been going for a lot of blondes, lately. He tries not to examine that too closely.
(Because he's been running from this problem the only way he knows how. He doesn't know what's happening with him, but all he can fucking think about, lately, is him, and that blissful feeling on the rooftop, that completeness. He can only think about how much he wants to experience it again, but he's terrified of what it means.
Because Peter Jason Quill does not do relationships. And he hates that some weird, alien trigger has decided on-- what? A boyfriend? A mate? A soulmate? What? -- for him, before his mind even has a chance to catch up.
Because Peter knows what love looks like. It's lonely and sad. It's a quiet house and an extra seat at the dinner table, "just in case." It's watching the night sky every time there's a meteor shower, waiting with bated breath, and heading back inside disappointed. It's reliving the same stories through rose-colored lenses. It's wasting away on sheets that aren't your own, in a room that smells of disinfectant and antiseptic, still holding out hope that they'll be there for you.
And thanks, but no thanks. Peter doesn't want any of that.)
He smiles, leans in close. Hey, Beautiful, what would you say to finding somewhere more private? You know, get to know each other on a more... personal level?
She hums thoughtfully and leans in as well. His breath hitches, and he thinks she's coming in for a kiss, but instead--
"Do you remember what my name is, darling?"
Oh, fuck.
Of course I do, and he says it with a laugh. What kinda asshole do you take me for?
"What is it, then?"
Shit, shit, shit. He ventures a guess, but says it with utmost confidence: Dahylia.
It's at that moment that the glass flies out of his hand, and the two of them yelp in surprise. The emerald liquid sloshes on the bartop, and Peter fucking seethes. He knows exactly what happened, and Lord help him, he's going to fucking throttle that guy--
Peter's distracted from his rage when the blonde harumphs and gathers up her things. "It's Preela," she tells him sharply, "you prick." And then she glares daggers at him as he sweeps out of the bar.
He apologizes to the bartender, who's glaring at him too as he wipes up the mess, and leaves him a big tip. He breathes, in and out -- once, twice, a million fucking times, -- and his hands are clenched into shaking fists as he tries to calm himself down. He is not going to let that guy get to him. Absolutely not. He is not going to give Charlie that satisfaction. He is not going to go over there and tell him off. He is not. He absolutely. Is. Not.
But then he's at Charlie's table before he realizes it, hands splayed on the surface as he leans in. ]
What the fuck is your problem, man?!