[ It's not the worst thing he's heard about his call-sign – it's also patently not true, because Star-Lord would be an awesome superhero name – and he lets it slide.
The main deck is something of a mess, the dogfight having dislodged more than a few of their belongings, various devices and knives and mechanical parts strewn across the deck. Peter makes a frustrated noise as he scoops up his blasters, fallen from the table, and hooks them into his holsters.
Peter moves to climb the next ladder to the cockpit, but he pauses at the foot, holding out a hand. ]
Just— stay here a sec. I need to break the news to them that we've got, um. [ A stowaway. An intruder. Some random-ass woman who could probably bench press a train. ] ... A guest.
[ jessica pulls herself up onto the main deck, glancing around and making note of the knives, the weird little objects, gears, springs, buttons — what the hell? she looks back up when peter moves to the next ladder, cocking an unimpressed eyebrow at him. ]
Okay?
[ she can stay put and twiddle her thumbs for a minute. ]
I'll be here, I guess.
[ she can't help being curious and a little wary about what peter's going to say to the rest of his...crew? especially because she's pretty sure she won't understand any of it.
Just— don't touch anything. Seriously. [ This with a warning gesture, eyes wide and expression solemn. ]
Because it literally might explode.
[ And it says a whole lot about his life and the decisions he's made to get to this point that he means that in earnest.
He gestures to the stern of the ship, to the porthole between the bunks. ]
Enjoy the view, I guess.
[ He climbs up the ladder after that, poking his head out of the hatchway. He's gratified to see that while he was gone, the others apparently deemed it safe enough for them to navigate out of the storm, and a quick glance out of the canopy shows him the black expanse of space, dotted with stars. The others ask him what the hell took him so long once they notice him, and he purses his lips, frowning, realizing he really should've formulated what he was going to say before he got up here.
He starts with this: "Please don't freak out, but..."
Then, as the others nearly bowl him over as they climb down the ladder, he shouts, "You said you wouldn't freak out!"
Too late, though, and the crew is already there, staring at the newcomer, and Peter rushes to get between all of them and Jessica – because he knows them, knows that their patience wears thin and things would likely come to blows, and with the small space allotted in the Milano, any sort of fight is going to be hell on the bulkhead, and he'd rather not deal with that headache.
Or a literal headache, considering Peter would surely be caught up in it all.
He plays translator after that, offering the Guardians' rapid fire questions in a more digestible form – and toning them down considerably, in some cases, which elicited more than a few outraged, "That is not what I asked." It's standard stuff, though – who are you. Where did you come from. How did you get here. Who the hell are you working for, and who are you trying to kill, because if it's Peter, you're welcome to it.
(Peter pauses on that one, scowls at Rocket, who hisses out that weird laugh of his. Smug bastard.)
It lasts for goddamn ages, the interrogation, and even Peter is getting tired of it. Eventually they come to the same conclusion as he had: Jessica really doesn't know how the fuck she got here. She really doesn't know who the hell any of them are. And she probably doesn't mean to murder anyone. Uneasily, they decide that their best course of action is to finish up their job, then find some nice, official folks to foist her onto, so they can get on with their lives.
Half of the team departs to the flight deck again, the other half departs to the lower deck, all of them offering Jessica some of the most frigid warning glares Peter has ever seen. When they're alone again in the common area, Peter heaves out a sigh of relief, collapsing into a seat at the table. The heels of both of his palms dig into his temples to stave off the headache he had wanted so badly to avoid. ]
That was fun. [ His voice is devoid of enthusiasm. ] Let's do that again, huh?
[ the porthole is admittedly a whole lot more interesting to jess than the weird doodads lying all over the place. she leans between the bunks, staring out at the vast expanse of blackness, stars, and— yeah. that's definitely space. her mind is reeling, trying to pick out a real answer, but she unfortunately doesn't have much time before peter's crew comes barreling down the ladder. she spins quickly (which, ow, her fucking head), to see some...very not human people all glaring at her, and— is that a fucking raccoon?
jess is at first too stunned to start answering the questions thrown her way (helpfully translated by peter), and she just looks from each face to the next, taking them in one by one. okay, so she's seen the goddamn hulk and those weird damn aliens that had nearly destroyed new york, but— this is up close and personal, and it takes some adjusting.
she responds in her usual short, flat tone, meeting glare for glare, because despite coming up against something completely new, jess isn't one to be intimidated.
(she just kind of hopes her sarcasm bleeds through in translation.)
but hey, by the end of it, she isn't missing a limb and she isn't beating anyone's skull in, so that's pretty successful, all things considered. when they finally all go their own way, she leans against the bulkhead, looking over at peter. ]
Nice friends you got there.
[ not that she can blame them for being hostile, given the circumstances. ]
Thanks for not shoving me out of an airlock or something.
[ Dryly, ] They’re a cuddly bunch, once you get to know them. Really.
[ He flops back in his seat, sinking low enough to rest the back of his head against the chair’s backrest. At her thanks, he waves a hand vaguely, dismissively. ]
We weren’t gonna space you.
[ A pause. ]
Maybe chain you up in the cargo bay, but not space you.
[ But the sing-song way he says it betrays the suggestion as a joke. He glances up, gives her another once-over. ]
[ she's pretty sure it's the worst one she's ever had, and that's saying something. her head still feels like it might just explode, and though the nausea has eased off, her stomach isn't happy with her. ]
Got any aspirin?
[ because she'll take what she can get right now. ]
[ He shoves himself to his feet, nodding toward one end of the ship. ]
C'mon.
[ The sickbay is little more than a couple of chairs and a few compartments stuffed with supplies, but they make do. He pulls out a bottle of water, tossing it over to her, before picking through the jars and bottles in the shelves. ]
Completely human, right? [ Absently, as he frowns at one bottle before replacing it. ] Any weird allergies or anything? Like, you don't puff up like that girl in Willy Wonka when you touch tofu or something?
[ she catches the water, not hesitating to crack it open and take a long sip. ]
100% human.
[ she looks a little skeptically at the bottles peter pulls out, eyeing them like she doesn't necessarily trust whatever is floating around on a spaceship. ]
No Violet Beauregarde crap here. But I can't speak for anything, you know, not from Earth.
[ If he noticed, he wouldn’t blame her obvious distrust. As it stands, he finally fishes out some mild painkiller – almost lost behind the heavy duty stuff, considering how often they have to use it when someone (namely, Peter) gets his ass handed to him.
It rattles as he checks it over, and he tosses it over as he did the water. ]
Take two for now. More than that and you might grow a third arm.
[ It’s just as well that for the most part, Peter’s been raised by wolves, so he doesn’t immediately notice the lack of gratitude. It helps, too, that this whole mess has been an inconvenience for everyone involved, which makes niceties one of the most distant things in his mind.
He leans back against a counter, arms crossing over his chest, and he huffs out a laugh at her question. ]
Kind of?
Rocket is, uh. [ ... how best to put this? ] He’s a unique snowflake.
[ she takes another drink from her water, still watching peter closely. ]
A unique snowflake that looks like a raccoon?
[ she just wants to get that part straight. it's weird enough running into another human out here (along with the whole, you know, being here in the first place), but a walking, talking raccoon is...extra weird. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The main deck is something of a mess, the dogfight having dislodged more than a few of their belongings, various devices and knives and mechanical parts strewn across the deck. Peter makes a frustrated noise as he scoops up his blasters, fallen from the table, and hooks them into his holsters.
Peter moves to climb the next ladder to the cockpit, but he pauses at the foot, holding out a hand. ]
Just— stay here a sec. I need to break the news to them that we've got, um. [ A stowaway. An intruder. Some random-ass woman who could probably bench press a train. ] ... A guest.
no subject
Okay?
[ she can stay put and twiddle her thumbs for a minute. ]
I'll be here, I guess.
[ she can't help being curious and a little wary about what peter's going to say to the rest of his...crew? especially because she's pretty sure she won't understand any of it.
excellent. ]
no subject
Because it literally might explode.
[ And it says a whole lot about his life and the decisions he's made to get to this point that he means that in earnest.
He gestures to the stern of the ship, to the porthole between the bunks. ]
Enjoy the view, I guess.
[ He climbs up the ladder after that, poking his head out of the hatchway. He's gratified to see that while he was gone, the others apparently deemed it safe enough for them to navigate out of the storm, and a quick glance out of the canopy shows him the black expanse of space, dotted with stars. The others ask him what the hell took him so long once they notice him, and he purses his lips, frowning, realizing he really should've formulated what he was going to say before he got up here.
He starts with this: "Please don't freak out, but..."
Then, as the others nearly bowl him over as they climb down the ladder, he shouts, "You said you wouldn't freak out!"
Too late, though, and the crew is already there, staring at the newcomer, and Peter rushes to get between all of them and Jessica – because he knows them, knows that their patience wears thin and things would likely come to blows, and with the small space allotted in the Milano, any sort of fight is going to be hell on the bulkhead, and he'd rather not deal with that headache.
Or a literal headache, considering Peter would surely be caught up in it all.
He plays translator after that, offering the Guardians' rapid fire questions in a more digestible form – and toning them down considerably, in some cases, which elicited more than a few outraged, "That is not what I asked." It's standard stuff, though – who are you. Where did you come from. How did you get here. Who the hell are you working for, and who are you trying to kill, because if it's Peter, you're welcome to it.
(Peter pauses on that one, scowls at Rocket, who hisses out that weird laugh of his. Smug bastard.)
It lasts for goddamn ages, the interrogation, and even Peter is getting tired of it. Eventually they come to the same conclusion as he had: Jessica really doesn't know how the fuck she got here. She really doesn't know who the hell any of them are. And she probably doesn't mean to murder anyone. Uneasily, they decide that their best course of action is to finish up their job, then find some nice, official folks to foist her onto, so they can get on with their lives.
Half of the team departs to the flight deck again, the other half departs to the lower deck, all of them offering Jessica some of the most frigid warning glares Peter has ever seen. When they're alone again in the common area, Peter heaves out a sigh of relief, collapsing into a seat at the table. The heels of both of his palms dig into his temples to stave off the headache he had wanted so badly to avoid. ]
That was fun. [ His voice is devoid of enthusiasm. ] Let's do that again, huh?
no subject
jess is at first too stunned to start answering the questions thrown her way (helpfully translated by peter), and she just looks from each face to the next, taking them in one by one. okay, so she's seen the goddamn hulk and those weird damn aliens that had nearly destroyed new york, but— this is up close and personal, and it takes some adjusting.
she responds in her usual short, flat tone, meeting glare for glare, because despite coming up against something completely new, jess isn't one to be intimidated.
(she just kind of hopes her sarcasm bleeds through in translation.)
but hey, by the end of it, she isn't missing a limb and she isn't beating anyone's skull in, so that's pretty successful, all things considered. when they finally all go their own way, she leans against the bulkhead, looking over at peter. ]
Nice friends you got there.
[ not that she can blame them for being hostile, given the circumstances. ]
Thanks for not shoving me out of an airlock or something.
no subject
[ He flops back in his seat, sinking low enough to rest the back of his head against the chair’s backrest. At her thanks, he waves a hand vaguely, dismissively. ]
We weren’t gonna space you.
[ A pause. ]
Maybe chain you up in the cargo bay, but not space you.
[ But the sing-song way he says it betrays the suggestion as a joke. He glances up, gives her another once-over. ]
How’s the hangover?
no subject
[ she's pretty sure it's the worst one she's ever had, and that's saying something. her head still feels like it might just explode, and though the nausea has eased off, her stomach isn't happy with her. ]
Got any aspirin?
[ because she'll take what she can get right now. ]
Or water?
no subject
C'mon.
[ The sickbay is little more than a couple of chairs and a few compartments stuffed with supplies, but they make do. He pulls out a bottle of water, tossing it over to her, before picking through the jars and bottles in the shelves. ]
Completely human, right? [ Absently, as he frowns at one bottle before replacing it. ] Any weird allergies or anything? Like, you don't puff up like that girl in Willy Wonka when you touch tofu or something?
no subject
100% human.
[ she looks a little skeptically at the bottles peter pulls out, eyeing them like she doesn't necessarily trust whatever is floating around on a spaceship. ]
No Violet Beauregarde crap here. But I can't speak for anything, you know, not from Earth.
no subject
It rattles as he checks it over, and he tosses it over as he did the water. ]
Take two for now. More than that and you might grow a third arm.
[ A lilt in his voice to signal he’s joking. ]
no subject
Oh, goody.
[ she's pretty sure he's joking (but there's also that small part of her that's not sure about trusting anything space-y yet).
she takes a couple of the pills, scrutinizes them for a second, and then chucks them in her mouth to wash them down with a swig of water.
...jess should probably thank him, but she's not so great at that part.
but instead: ]
So it's not just my hangover, but that was a raccoon, right?
no subject
He leans back against a counter, arms crossing over his chest, and he huffs out a laugh at her question. ]
Kind of?
Rocket is, uh. [ ... how best to put this? ] He’s a unique snowflake.
[ #nailedit. ]
no subject
A unique snowflake that looks like a raccoon?
[ she just wants to get that part straight. it's weird enough running into another human out here (along with the whole, you know, being here in the first place), but a walking, talking raccoon is...extra weird. ]
no subject
A unique snowflake that looks like a raccoon.
[ He repeats it back flatly, deciding that, yeah, that’s basically the best way to put it. ]
He’s not actually, though. A raccoon. Just— kinda looks like it.
[ A beat. ]
Probably.
[ Another beat, then a little more uncertainly, ]
Pretty sure, anyway. But, yeah. Pretty close.