[ 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responsible for her random appearance here, so that wariness is still edging into her tone — though it's definitely superseded by her aggravation at this point.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. ]
[ Still sharply and defensively – more out of a desire to be willfully unhelpful than any resistance to the question itself. He really doesn’t see how where he’s from has any bearing on the bullshit that just dropped in his lap, though, and his lips part to say as much.
But then she grimaces, and Peter frowns at her and unconsciously takes a half-step forward. Not that he’s, like, concerned or anything, but he definitely doesn’t want to deal with her if she keels over here and now in his cargo bay. ]
[ He parrots back in a mocking voice, ] "I'm not gonna puke," she said, right before she tossed her cookies all over the deck.
[ He should probably let her up onto the main deck to the bathroom just in case she really does puke. That would be the smart thing to do. Except bringing her up there might garner attention, and Peter isn't exactly sure how to explain this whole fucking thing to the others yet.
"Hey, guys. Don't panic, but this random ass lady who can deadlift twice her body weight kind of just appeared on our ship, but she's cool, because she's from my neck of the woods and hasn't snapped me in half yet."
That will go over well.
His eyes flick up to the hatchway, then back to the woman, his jaw clenching. Then, ]
[ she gives him a skeptical look, like she's not entirely sure if he's going to try something or not, but the nausea is making decisions for her right now.
she takes a tentative seat on one of the nearby boxes, forcing herself to breathe out slowly before letting her head rest between her knees. ]
Fuck.
[ get it together, jones. jesus christ. this is not the time for this crap.
she takes a few deep breaths, then looks up at peter again. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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?
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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?
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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.
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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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[ Still sharply and defensively – more out of a desire to be willfully unhelpful than any resistance to the question itself. He really doesn’t see how where he’s from has any bearing on the bullshit that just dropped in his lap, though, and his lips part to say as much.
But then she grimaces, and Peter frowns at her and unconsciously takes a half-step forward. Not that he’s, like, concerned or anything, but he definitely doesn’t want to deal with her if she keels over here and now in his cargo bay. ]
—You alright?
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I'm fine.
[ except it still feels like the worst hangover of her life, and she's also vaguely nauseated.
excellent. ]
Is space sickness a thing?
[ or maybe however she'd gotten there had just seriously set her body off-kilter. probably that one. ]
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[ For a second he assumes she means, like, the space flu, or a space cold, or space rabies, or something, before it clicks. ]
Pretty sure that’s just plain old motion sickness, dude.
[ A pause, as he looks her over. ]
... Or just, you know. Sickness. In general.
[ His expression pinches. ]
Please don’t puke right now.
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[ except she really might.
it's taking a whole lot of concentrated effort not to right now, and she's surreptitiously looking around for a trashcan of some kind.
...better than the floor, right? ]
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[ He should probably let her up onto the main deck to the bathroom just in case she really does puke. That would be the smart thing to do. Except bringing her up there might garner attention, and Peter isn't exactly sure how to explain this whole fucking thing to the others yet.
"Hey, guys. Don't panic, but this random ass lady who can deadlift twice her body weight kind of just appeared on our ship, but she's cool, because she's from my neck of the woods and hasn't snapped me in half yet."
That will go over well.
His eyes flick up to the hatchway, then back to the woman, his jaw clenching. Then, ]
Just— sit down, okay? Take a sec.
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she takes a tentative seat on one of the nearby boxes, forcing herself to breathe out slowly before letting her head rest between her knees. ]
Fuck.
[ get it together, jones. jesus christ. this is not the time for this crap.
she takes a few deep breaths, then looks up at peter again. ]
Exactly— mmf. Exactly how far are we from earth?
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At her question, he frowns, gaze flitting off to examine something on the bulkhead. How can he answer this delicately?
After a few seconds of deliberation, he decides there is no putting this delicately, and he comes right out with it. ]
Really, really fucking far. Like. Light years. A lot of them.
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Great.
[ she pushes her hair up away from her face, forcing another slow breath. ]
Okay, then how long would it take to get there?
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