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[ she hums in quiet agreement, the corner of her lips tugging up as she looks back towards the party. ]
Yes, that was much more expected for us.
[ chaos and violence — they did seem to follow the guardians wherever they went. (of course, occasionally it was chaos of their own making, but that was beside the point.)
she likes to think the harvest festival might have been less eventful, if only because there wouldn't be terrorists to interrupt their dance or bullets to be dodged or raucous fights to be picked. she's sure their companions could have found trouble, if they went looking for it, but she and peter would have been much too preoccupied with experiencing what the festival had to offer, like their other outings of museums and plays and music.
it would have been...nice. ]
I think you'll have to ask me to dance somewhere else.
Yes, that was much more expected for us.
[ chaos and violence — they did seem to follow the guardians wherever they went. (of course, occasionally it was chaos of their own making, but that was beside the point.)
she likes to think the harvest festival might have been less eventful, if only because there wouldn't be terrorists to interrupt their dance or bullets to be dodged or raucous fights to be picked. she's sure their companions could have found trouble, if they went looking for it, but she and peter would have been much too preoccupied with experiencing what the festival had to offer, like their other outings of museums and plays and music.
it would have been...nice. ]
I think you'll have to ask me to dance somewhere else.
[ He blinks for a second or two, as if he hadn't quite heard what she said.
But when it sinks in, he slowly turns his head to look at her, a disbelieving sort of smile curling his mouth. ]
Really?
[ His heart pounds in his chest, stomach fluttering, and— Jesus, it's like having a crush grade school all over again, when the prettiest girl happens to glance his way. It's like fifty adrenaline rushes all at once, culminating in that warm, drunk feeling of a night of celebration, and—
Wow. Pump the brakes, Quill, he tells himself, trying to wrangle his smile it something— you know. Cooler.
More Star-Lord. ]
I'll— [ He clears his throat, shifting a little in his seat. ] I'll keep that in mind.
But when it sinks in, he slowly turns his head to look at her, a disbelieving sort of smile curling his mouth. ]
Really?
[ His heart pounds in his chest, stomach fluttering, and— Jesus, it's like having a crush grade school all over again, when the prettiest girl happens to glance his way. It's like fifty adrenaline rushes all at once, culminating in that warm, drunk feeling of a night of celebration, and—
Wow. Pump the brakes, Quill, he tells himself, trying to wrangle his smile it something— you know. Cooler.
More Star-Lord. ]
I'll— [ He clears his throat, shifting a little in his seat. ] I'll keep that in mind.
[ gamora looks back at him to see that first smile on his face, all amazed and taken aback in a way she's sure that she likes. there's something honest about the way he looks at her, something that doesn't hold all the ego and swagger, and she's...fond of that part of him.
(she'd like to see more of it.)
but it melts away into that star-lord smile instead, and she keeps herself from shaking her head. ]
Good.
[ she smooths down her dress, getting to her feet. ]
Maybe then I will sneak off to a dark corner with you.
[ aaaaand she's totally going to walk away from him after that to head back to the foyer. ]
(she'd like to see more of it.)
but it melts away into that star-lord smile instead, and she keeps herself from shaking her head. ]
Good.
[ she smooths down her dress, getting to her feet. ]
Maybe then I will sneak off to a dark corner with you.
[ aaaaand she's totally going to walk away from him after that to head back to the foyer. ]
[ He breathes off a laugh. ]
Yeah, maybe—
[ But he chokes on that last syllable, mouth working silently as the words finally settle, and— ]
Wait, what?
[ No, okay, he definitely heard that wrong. She definitely didn't— Gamora would never—
He stares at her retreating back, mouth still hanging open, trying to make sense of the last, like, minute, because he's pretty sure what she said – or what he thinks she said, or maybe what he thinks she didn't say, or... – has flipped everything on its head.
It takes him even longer to realize that she's managed to put a fair amount of distance between them while he's been sitting here, gawking, and he scrambles to his feet, running after her. ]
Yeah, maybe—
[ But he chokes on that last syllable, mouth working silently as the words finally settle, and— ]
Wait, what?
[ No, okay, he definitely heard that wrong. She definitely didn't— Gamora would never—
He stares at her retreating back, mouth still hanging open, trying to make sense of the last, like, minute, because he's pretty sure what she said – or what he thinks she said, or maybe what he thinks she didn't say, or... – has flipped everything on its head.
It takes him even longer to realize that she's managed to put a fair amount of distance between them while he's been sitting here, gawking, and he scrambles to his feet, running after her. ]
Edited 2017-03-08 05:49 (UTC)
[ but that's definitely the best part: leaving peter slack-jawed and confused, until he finally tries to catch up with her.
she glances over her shoulder at him, eyebrow cocked. ]
That was your suggestion before, wasn't it?
[ she gives a small wave of her hand, still walking. ]
If you do not lose your courage.
she glances over her shoulder at him, eyebrow cocked. ]
That was your suggestion before, wasn't it?
[ she gives a small wave of her hand, still walking. ]
If you do not lose your courage.
I mean, yes, but—
[ He falters again, voices a few sounds before he abandons that train of thought as soon as they start. Then, a pace or two in relative quiet (as music flits through the air – a cover of some popular song from a few years back, if Peter remembers – and the hum of clipped conversations reach them from the foyer), and Peter breathes out sharply through his nose.
A little rankled, if he's honest. But only a little. ]
I never lose my courage.
[ He falters again, voices a few sounds before he abandons that train of thought as soon as they start. Then, a pace or two in relative quiet (as music flits through the air – a cover of some popular song from a few years back, if Peter remembers – and the hum of clipped conversations reach them from the foyer), and Peter breathes out sharply through his nose.
A little rankled, if he's honest. But only a little. ]
I never lose my courage.
[ gamora stops short, turning quickly on her heel (not her usual boots, much to her distaste), to face up peter. she looks at him with that unwavering stare, those intense eyes that have so often set her enemies trembling. ]
Is that so?
[ she ignores the music from the hall, the distant whisper of voices close enough that she could probably pick words out for herself if she felt inclined.
but instead, she's just looking at peter. ]
Is that so?
[ she ignores the music from the hall, the distant whisper of voices close enough that she could probably pick words out for herself if she felt inclined.
but instead, she's just looking at peter. ]
[ Peter nearly runs right into her when Gamora stops. As it is, he practically slams on the brakes, dances back a step or two to keep from bowling over her. Not even a full second later, he kind of regrets not running her over, once she levels that look at him. And—
Okay. Okay. Maybe he's wrong about never losing courage, because Jesus Christ, it's like Peter killed Gamora's pet dog or stole her cow or something, and she's calling him out for a duel at high noon.
But Peter's stubborn when he wants to be. (Bullheaded, most folks would call it; Peter would call it "determined," because that's a little more flattering.) And in this case, with Gamora outright challenging him (and with the guys surely listening over the comms, who would never let him live it down if he let Gamora win), Peter stands a little straighter, puts his hands on his hips. ]
That's so.
[ He pats himself on the back for keeping that quaver out of his voice. ]
And between the two of us? I'm a little offended you expected anything less.
Okay. Okay. Maybe he's wrong about never losing courage, because Jesus Christ, it's like Peter killed Gamora's pet dog or stole her cow or something, and she's calling him out for a duel at high noon.
But Peter's stubborn when he wants to be. (Bullheaded, most folks would call it; Peter would call it "determined," because that's a little more flattering.) And in this case, with Gamora outright challenging him (and with the guys surely listening over the comms, who would never let him live it down if he let Gamora win), Peter stands a little straighter, puts his hands on his hips. ]
That's so.
[ He pats himself on the back for keeping that quaver out of his voice. ]
And between the two of us? I'm a little offended you expected anything less.
[ there's a flicker of something in her expression — subtle, barely there, but it's absolutely approval; she likes to see that peter isn't backing down from her (even if she still expects to win whatever challenge she throws his way).
when he straightens up, she takes a step closer to him, still considering him. ]
Courage is different from acting before you think, Quill.
[ which she's seen him do a great deal.
that she would call foolish. ]
when he straightens up, she takes a step closer to him, still considering him. ]
Courage is different from acting before you think, Quill.
[ which she's seen him do a great deal.
that she would call foolish. ]
[ He makes a noncommittal sort of noise, lifting both shoulders in a shrug. (Even as a nervous part of him wants to take a step back as she moves forward, but that would mean giving ground, which is pretty much losing, and—
Yeah. Not happening.) ]
Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.
[ He puts on another one of those devil-may-care smiles. ]
Improvising is kinda my thing, remember?
Yeah. Not happening.) ]
Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe.
[ He puts on another one of those devil-may-care smiles. ]
Improvising is kinda my thing, remember?
I'm perfectly aware.
[ he doesn't step away, and she can admire that.
—though it does mean she takes another step closer. ]
And yet you still think you would keep your nerve if I were to say we should go to that corner there, like you suggested earlier?
[ ...because she's really banking on him backing down at this point. or at least stumbling all over himself as he seems to often do when she catches him genuinely off guard. ]
[ he doesn't step away, and she can admire that.
—though it does mean she takes another step closer. ]
And yet you still think you would keep your nerve if I were to say we should go to that corner there, like you suggested earlier?
[ ...because she's really banking on him backing down at this point. or at least stumbling all over himself as he seems to often do when she catches him genuinely off guard. ]
[ That.
That definitely makes him pause.
Mostly because Peter's always had something of an overactive imagination, and at those words, he runs through about a million different scenarios – most of which is probably unsuitable for viewing by children under 17 years of age without an adult present, and at least one of which involves Gamora having been replaced with some kind of shapeshifter intent on catching Peter unawares and braining him the second his back was turned.
They all feel about as likely, honestly. ]
Gamora. If you want to drag me to a dark hallway, you're more than welcome. I won't stop you.
[ Unless that shapeshifter thing is true, he thinks distantly. He might try to stop her then. ]
That definitely makes him pause.
Mostly because Peter's always had something of an overactive imagination, and at those words, he runs through about a million different scenarios – most of which is probably unsuitable for viewing by children under 17 years of age without an adult present, and at least one of which involves Gamora having been replaced with some kind of shapeshifter intent on catching Peter unawares and braining him the second his back was turned.
They all feel about as likely, honestly. ]
Gamora. If you want to drag me to a dark hallway, you're more than welcome. I won't stop you.
[ Unless that shapeshifter thing is true, he thinks distantly. He might try to stop her then. ]
[ another moment of that quiet, intense consideration, and gamora takes one last step closer. she absolutely can't get closer without pressing flush against him, so she stops just shy of his chest, instead reaching up to curl her fingers around his tie. she tugs on it like a leash, but she doesn't drag him down — just looks at him with that same unyielding gaze. ]
I never doubted that.
[ she doesn't lean in yet, doesn't pull him close, but instead holds steady with his tie in her hand. ]
You are a predictable man, Peter Quill.
I never doubted that.
[ she doesn't lean in yet, doesn't pull him close, but instead holds steady with his tie in her hand. ]
You are a predictable man, Peter Quill.
[ Peter’s pretty sure he had a dream like this, once.
He wants to fidget under her gaze, wants to swallow around the lump of nervousness that’s suddenly manifested in his throat, but he tells himself he can do this. He’s danced this dance with tons of women, played hard to get, played at dominance, tried desperately to get the upper hand. This shouldn’t be any different, he tells himself, meeting her gaze.
(But it’s totally different. It’s completely different, because this is Gamora.) ]
I am not.
[ he protests, predictably. His eyes flit down to her hand, wrapped around his tie, and he arches an eyebrow. ]
You... plan on giving that back, any time soon?
He wants to fidget under her gaze, wants to swallow around the lump of nervousness that’s suddenly manifested in his throat, but he tells himself he can do this. He’s danced this dance with tons of women, played hard to get, played at dominance, tried desperately to get the upper hand. This shouldn’t be any different, he tells himself, meeting her gaze.
(But it’s totally different. It’s completely different, because this is Gamora.) ]
I am not.
[ he protests, predictably. His eyes flit down to her hand, wrapped around his tie, and he arches an eyebrow. ]
You... plan on giving that back, any time soon?
Do you want it back?
[ said with the lift of an eyebrow as she gives an experimental tug at the tie, this time in an attempt to pull him just a touch more to her level.
she's waiting for it at this point, for that nervous flicker, for him to break eye contact or shuffle around, some indication that she's winning.
(because gamora does so enjoy winning.) ]
[ said with the lift of an eyebrow as she gives an experimental tug at the tie, this time in an attempt to pull him just a touch more to her level.
she's waiting for it at this point, for that nervous flicker, for him to break eye contact or shuffle around, some indication that she's winning.
(because gamora does so enjoy winning.) ]
[ Definitely had a dream like this.
Peter can tell she’s just. Trying to intimidate him. Trying to make him nervous. Trying to win, because one of the endearing little things he’s learned is that Gamora has a competitive streak a mile wide. And as much he wants to surrender to that temptation to fidget, to look at anything but her, he forces himself to keep her gaze, forces his hands into stillness.
For as often as he loses (and he loses a lot), Peter has a bit of competitiveness to him, too.
She tugs him down to about eye level, and part of him thinks that maybe he should wear ties more often, if this is how it’s going to turn out. (Because a part of him is kind of, like, a little turned on—?) And—
Music, echoing softly through the halls. The adrenaline winding down from the earlier fight. Gamora standing in front of him, eyes piercing and determined in that way he’s always kind of admired (and kind of really liked), only a few inches of space between them. Man, she looks gorgeous – she always looks gorgeous, but tonight he had the benefit of her hanging onto his arm, pressing in close, dancing with him, and—
It's been a good night, all things considered. One of the better ones, since the bullshit in the market. And if he’s honest, if he’s really honest, that mess had shaken him a little. Learning just how damned close he got to actually (seriously, for real) dying, having a blank space in his head where those moments should have been, had scared him a little. (A lot.) The shit with the Infinity Stone had been scary, sure, but it was the unreal sort of scary, the when will this ever happen again? sort of scary. Being gutshot in the middle of a market? Bleeding out?
That’s an everyday sort of scary. The this probably won’t be the last time sort of scary that’s rattled him, though he’d never say as much. Kind of helps put things in perspective, he guesses. Kind of helps to make him think just how much he regrets.
Oh, what the hell? he thinks, slowly closing the distance between them. ]
It's all yours.
[ On a low sort of rumble. And he figures if she kills him, he’ll at least die satisfied.
Peter leans in close, takes his time, gives her a chance to back away (to give up), and when she doesn’t move, the corner of his mouth twitches a little in a small smile. A bare breath between them, and Peter thinks, Holy shit, this is really happening, and— ]
Mr. Space-Lord?
[ A voice shouts from down the hall. Peter jerks back, startled, though with Gamora’s hand still gripping his tie, he doesn’t go as far as he means to. ]
Peter can tell she’s just. Trying to intimidate him. Trying to make him nervous. Trying to win, because one of the endearing little things he’s learned is that Gamora has a competitive streak a mile wide. And as much he wants to surrender to that temptation to fidget, to look at anything but her, he forces himself to keep her gaze, forces his hands into stillness.
For as often as he loses (and he loses a lot), Peter has a bit of competitiveness to him, too.
She tugs him down to about eye level, and part of him thinks that maybe he should wear ties more often, if this is how it’s going to turn out. (Because a part of him is kind of, like, a little turned on—?) And—
Music, echoing softly through the halls. The adrenaline winding down from the earlier fight. Gamora standing in front of him, eyes piercing and determined in that way he’s always kind of admired (and kind of really liked), only a few inches of space between them. Man, she looks gorgeous – she always looks gorgeous, but tonight he had the benefit of her hanging onto his arm, pressing in close, dancing with him, and—
It's been a good night, all things considered. One of the better ones, since the bullshit in the market. And if he’s honest, if he’s really honest, that mess had shaken him a little. Learning just how damned close he got to actually (seriously, for real) dying, having a blank space in his head where those moments should have been, had scared him a little. (A lot.) The shit with the Infinity Stone had been scary, sure, but it was the unreal sort of scary, the when will this ever happen again? sort of scary. Being gutshot in the middle of a market? Bleeding out?
That’s an everyday sort of scary. The this probably won’t be the last time sort of scary that’s rattled him, though he’d never say as much. Kind of helps put things in perspective, he guesses. Kind of helps to make him think just how much he regrets.
Oh, what the hell? he thinks, slowly closing the distance between them. ]
It's all yours.
[ On a low sort of rumble. And he figures if she kills him, he’ll at least die satisfied.
Peter leans in close, takes his time, gives her a chance to back away (to give up), and when she doesn’t move, the corner of his mouth twitches a little in a small smile. A bare breath between them, and Peter thinks, Holy shit, this is really happening, and— ]
Mr. Space-Lord?
[ A voice shouts from down the hall. Peter jerks back, startled, though with Gamora’s hand still gripping his tie, he doesn’t go as far as he means to. ]
[ there's a familiarity to the moment that strikes a chord in gamora. the faint music, the closeness, the quiet thrum of something between them — but unlike the night on knowhere, she isn't reaching for a knife. she isn't pinning him to the wall with the threat of slicing out his vocal cords; if anything, she's the one keeping him in place, keeping their faces mere breaths apart, and for the first time in...a while, she realizes how easy it would be to close that distance and press her lips to his.
part of her wonders if this (whatever this is) might be a piece of the reason why she'd been so shaken by his injury. was it only friendship that had her so attached to the terran? was it only the companionship she felt with him and the others, or was it something more that left her with a fear of emptiness, of intense loss?
was it more that she felt on their excursions to see new things in the galaxy? was it more when they stood side-by-side in front of some great masterpiece or a beautiful sunset, their shoulders nearly (nearly) brushing? was it more when she held him in her arms as he slowly bled out in front of her?
was it more when she begged him to stay?
(because gamora, deadliest woman in the galaxy, does not beg—
even if that soft "please" had left her lips in the market.)
all yours, he says, leaning into her, nearly there, and for once, she doesn't shove him away. there are no threats, there is no violence, and there is no backing down. gamora shifts just enough to meet him halfway—
until a voice calls from the foyer, and gamora is just as shocked as peter. she pulls back quickly (but doesn't drop his tie), and there's a comical moment of gamora yanking at the accessory like a suddenly too-short leash.
she quickly remedies the situation, dropping his tie and taking a few proper steps back. clearing her throat, she forces a slow, quiet breath, and then inclines her head back down the hall. ]
They clearly need you for something.
part of her wonders if this (whatever this is) might be a piece of the reason why she'd been so shaken by his injury. was it only friendship that had her so attached to the terran? was it only the companionship she felt with him and the others, or was it something more that left her with a fear of emptiness, of intense loss?
was it more that she felt on their excursions to see new things in the galaxy? was it more when they stood side-by-side in front of some great masterpiece or a beautiful sunset, their shoulders nearly (nearly) brushing? was it more when she held him in her arms as he slowly bled out in front of her?
was it more when she begged him to stay?
(because gamora, deadliest woman in the galaxy, does not beg—
even if that soft "please" had left her lips in the market.)
all yours, he says, leaning into her, nearly there, and for once, she doesn't shove him away. there are no threats, there is no violence, and there is no backing down. gamora shifts just enough to meet him halfway—
until a voice calls from the foyer, and gamora is just as shocked as peter. she pulls back quickly (but doesn't drop his tie), and there's a comical moment of gamora yanking at the accessory like a suddenly too-short leash.
she quickly remedies the situation, dropping his tie and taking a few proper steps back. clearing her throat, she forces a slow, quiet breath, and then inclines her head back down the hall. ]
They clearly need you for something.
[ It’s an awkward, disorienting sort of second, where he jerks back, but Gamora’s grip on his tie yanks him back forward. A startled yelp escapes him at the sudden change of direction, but they both seem to realize what happened at the same moment, because before he can ask for her to let go, she’s already dropping his tie.
Peter doesn’t embarrass easily (or oftentimes, at all) but right now, he feels heat crawling up his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Quickly he straightens himself out, tucks his tie back beneath his vest, cinches the knot back up his throat, smooths his clothing down. Gamora seems to gather herself, too, though she seems to be fairing a whole lot better on the awkwardness front. For a second, he looks torn, fidgeting a little as he looks at her. He starts to say, ]
We could just—
[ But then a Nova Corps officer rounds the corner, fires off a quick salute. ]
Mr. Space-Lord, sir—!
It’s Star-Lord. [ And the response is automatic, exasperated, as Peter turns his attention to the officer. ]
My apologies, sir. Star-Lord, sir, Denarian Dey has further questions for you. Please accompany me to the foyer.
[ Peter hesitates, glancing over at Gamora with that conflicted look still on his face, before he lets out an explosive breath. He turns on his heel, heading up the hall toward the officer. ]
Peter doesn’t embarrass easily (or oftentimes, at all) but right now, he feels heat crawling up his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Quickly he straightens himself out, tucks his tie back beneath his vest, cinches the knot back up his throat, smooths his clothing down. Gamora seems to gather herself, too, though she seems to be fairing a whole lot better on the awkwardness front. For a second, he looks torn, fidgeting a little as he looks at her. He starts to say, ]
We could just—
[ But then a Nova Corps officer rounds the corner, fires off a quick salute. ]
Mr. Space-Lord, sir—!
It’s Star-Lord. [ And the response is automatic, exasperated, as Peter turns his attention to the officer. ]
My apologies, sir. Star-Lord, sir, Denarian Dey has further questions for you. Please accompany me to the foyer.
[ Peter hesitates, glancing over at Gamora with that conflicted look still on his face, before he lets out an explosive breath. He turns on his heel, heading up the hall toward the officer. ]
[ When Charlie ran away from his family home, away from the high walls and libraries and colleges that came with being a highborn wizard, he didn’t think he would ever come to truly know freedom. His family’s knights dogged him at every turn, left him hungry and scared, always having to watch his back, and knowing that his mere ability to wield magic, indicated by the runic Mark curling gently over one shoulder, would mean that he would never be accepted or trusted by the rest of the world.
But sometimes fate decides to show a little mercy to a poor soul, and thanks to a misunderstanding that somehow blossomed into an uneasy partnership, Charlie found himself in the company of a sometimes-mercenary, sometimes-thief by the name of Peter Quill. Peter was rough around the edges, and his distrust of magic was obvious from the very start, but he was kind when it counted, in his own sort of way. He helped Charlie along for some reason, even now Charlie’s not quite sure what it was that made Peter want to keep him around, taught him how to get by without leaning on his magic, dodging the Maxwell family knights and a rather sizable bounty on Charlie’s head all the while.
A promise to stick together for a couple of weeks became over half a year. Charlie repaid his debt to Peter by enchanting his bow, giving him the ability to set his arrows alight with flame or imbue them with lightning with a mere thought, though it hardly seemed like enough given all that Peter had done for him.
Eventually, it became clear that the people tailing Charlie were not going to stop. Over six months down the line, and his father still tried every trick, pulled ever string he could, to forcibly bring his son back home. It wasn’t fair to Peter to have to put up with it, and as much as Charlie liked Peter- which was an awful lot. Perhaps too much, considering how fresh the wound left by Robert’s death still was, even after all this time- he couldn’t allow this to continue.
The ruse was a long time in the making, taking only slightly longer to enact than it did to convince Peter it was a good idea, but thanks to some impressive acting and some rather impressive arcane trickery (if Charlie does say so himself), they faked Charlie’s death. The knights vanished, the bounty was withdrawn, and Charlie and Peter parted ways.
As one last gesture, an attempt at repaying a debt too big to ever be repaid, Charlie left peter with a small silver whistle, telling him that if he ever needed help, no matter where he was, to just use the whistle and Charlie would be there.
The village near Charlie’s home is small and pleasant, full of smiling people and laughing children. When Charlie had stumbled upon it nearly a year and half ago now, it had been a grim, somber place, full of grieving parents, plagued by the fear that when their little ones went to bed at night, they wouldn’t rise in the morning.
Charlie knew the sickness, a high fever and a cough that would leave a child bedridden for days until quietly claiming them in their sleep. It had hit the towns around Charlie’s family home some years earlier, and the wizards had devised a cure. (It wouldn’t do, his father had said, to have it spread so far so quickly that it put the wizarding families at risk as well as the common ones. It was the only kindness Charlie ever remembered his father extending to the common townsfolk.) He was both surprised and not to find it still ravaging villages this far out.
Charlie had only been a teenager during his first encounter with the sickness, but he remembered the spellwork and the herbs involved well enough. The villagers didn’t ask just how or where he’d come by a cure, they were only glad that he had. It was as good a place to stop as any, small and nondescript, and now, extremely welcoming and willing not to ask questions.
Potions had never been Charlie’s strong suit, but he’s a decent enough apothecary after a year or so of study, and his wizardry gives him something of an edge that makes up for his proper schooling. He lives a quiet existence in a small cabin in the woods beyond the village’s borders. It’s perhaps a little lonely, but it’s the freedom he’s always wanted, and there’s nothing more he could ask for.
His thoughts wander back to Peter often. Part of him regrets not sticking together- he liked Peter, and he owed him his life. He wonders if the mercenary is doing okay for himself, if he’s keeping out of trouble well enough. He must be, considering that Charlie hasn’t heard the call of the little whistle he left him with.
And then one day he does hear it.
He’s out in the garden, tending his herbs, when the shrill sound cuts through the silence, pulling him like a physical force. Something like panic constricts his chest and he runs into the house. He’s got a back packed already, waiting in case someone should find him and he needs to make a quick getaway. He slips his cloak over his shoulders, straps a pair of daggers and a short sword to his belt, and snatches up his bag. After quickly scrawling a note to any of the villagers who may come calling, the wizard closes his eyes, focuses on the invisible force of the enchantment, lets it pull him. Then he winks out of existence, carried by the spell to wherever Peter is. ]
But sometimes fate decides to show a little mercy to a poor soul, and thanks to a misunderstanding that somehow blossomed into an uneasy partnership, Charlie found himself in the company of a sometimes-mercenary, sometimes-thief by the name of Peter Quill. Peter was rough around the edges, and his distrust of magic was obvious from the very start, but he was kind when it counted, in his own sort of way. He helped Charlie along for some reason, even now Charlie’s not quite sure what it was that made Peter want to keep him around, taught him how to get by without leaning on his magic, dodging the Maxwell family knights and a rather sizable bounty on Charlie’s head all the while.
A promise to stick together for a couple of weeks became over half a year. Charlie repaid his debt to Peter by enchanting his bow, giving him the ability to set his arrows alight with flame or imbue them with lightning with a mere thought, though it hardly seemed like enough given all that Peter had done for him.
Eventually, it became clear that the people tailing Charlie were not going to stop. Over six months down the line, and his father still tried every trick, pulled ever string he could, to forcibly bring his son back home. It wasn’t fair to Peter to have to put up with it, and as much as Charlie liked Peter- which was an awful lot. Perhaps too much, considering how fresh the wound left by Robert’s death still was, even after all this time- he couldn’t allow this to continue.
The ruse was a long time in the making, taking only slightly longer to enact than it did to convince Peter it was a good idea, but thanks to some impressive acting and some rather impressive arcane trickery (if Charlie does say so himself), they faked Charlie’s death. The knights vanished, the bounty was withdrawn, and Charlie and Peter parted ways.
As one last gesture, an attempt at repaying a debt too big to ever be repaid, Charlie left peter with a small silver whistle, telling him that if he ever needed help, no matter where he was, to just use the whistle and Charlie would be there.
The village near Charlie’s home is small and pleasant, full of smiling people and laughing children. When Charlie had stumbled upon it nearly a year and half ago now, it had been a grim, somber place, full of grieving parents, plagued by the fear that when their little ones went to bed at night, they wouldn’t rise in the morning.
Charlie knew the sickness, a high fever and a cough that would leave a child bedridden for days until quietly claiming them in their sleep. It had hit the towns around Charlie’s family home some years earlier, and the wizards had devised a cure. (It wouldn’t do, his father had said, to have it spread so far so quickly that it put the wizarding families at risk as well as the common ones. It was the only kindness Charlie ever remembered his father extending to the common townsfolk.) He was both surprised and not to find it still ravaging villages this far out.
Charlie had only been a teenager during his first encounter with the sickness, but he remembered the spellwork and the herbs involved well enough. The villagers didn’t ask just how or where he’d come by a cure, they were only glad that he had. It was as good a place to stop as any, small and nondescript, and now, extremely welcoming and willing not to ask questions.
Potions had never been Charlie’s strong suit, but he’s a decent enough apothecary after a year or so of study, and his wizardry gives him something of an edge that makes up for his proper schooling. He lives a quiet existence in a small cabin in the woods beyond the village’s borders. It’s perhaps a little lonely, but it’s the freedom he’s always wanted, and there’s nothing more he could ask for.
His thoughts wander back to Peter often. Part of him regrets not sticking together- he liked Peter, and he owed him his life. He wonders if the mercenary is doing okay for himself, if he’s keeping out of trouble well enough. He must be, considering that Charlie hasn’t heard the call of the little whistle he left him with.
And then one day he does hear it.
He’s out in the garden, tending his herbs, when the shrill sound cuts through the silence, pulling him like a physical force. Something like panic constricts his chest and he runs into the house. He’s got a back packed already, waiting in case someone should find him and he needs to make a quick getaway. He slips his cloak over his shoulders, straps a pair of daggers and a short sword to his belt, and snatches up his bag. After quickly scrawling a note to any of the villagers who may come calling, the wizard closes his eyes, focuses on the invisible force of the enchantment, lets it pull him. Then he winks out of existence, carried by the spell to wherever Peter is. ]
[ He sticks it out with Charlie longer than he means to.
It was a matter of practicality, at first; a matter of getting what he was owed – because even if the first pass at rescuing Charlie had been completely happenstance, the second time had been deliberate, borne of the compassion his old team had tried so hard to squash out of him. Escaping from the town, teaching Charlie how to survive, showing him the sort of tricks that existed in every conman’s arsenal – those had been purposeful, too. And maybe he taught Charlie some of the exact wrong lessons, but Peter gave him the means to survive, to slither his way out of the hands reaching out for him.
And gods, there were a lot of hands reaching for the guy.
Two weeks turn into months, and while Peter doesn’t quite give up his distrust of magic, he at least gives up his distrust of Charlie. They get along, which surprises him (and surprises Charlie, if he had to wager a guess), though Peter never gave too much of himself away. Kept his secrets to himself – especially the Mark curling between his shoulder blades, licking up his neck. (If anyone would know what to do about that stupid thing, it probably would have been Charlie; but habit kept Peter from mentioning it.)
Still, Peter quietly admits that traveling together isn’t quite as terrible as it had initially seemed. They dodge the knights in silver armor, the mercenaries, the retainers sent with manipulative messages from Charlie’s worried parents. At three months, Peter begins to wonder what lengths the Maxwells wouldn’t go to if it meant regaining their son.
But Charlie decides enough is enough, and after six months, they fake his death. They put on show worthy of a standing ovation and four encores, and when it’s over, it’s— quiet.
They breathe.
And Charlie leaves.
Six months ago, Peter would have never expected to feel so— hollow when Charlie finally decides to leave. It’s been a while since he’s traveled with anyone, had anyone to watch his back like Charlie has watched his. On a practical level, Charlie’s magic has gotten them out of more than a few binds, saved their asses when nothing else could. And on a personal level, Charlie is just— so fucking different than anyone Peter’s ever met.
He likes him.
Peter nearly asks the guy to reconsider, to stick it out; he nearly tells Charlie that he’s still welcome along, but—
They lead different lives. Peter’s life is already hectic, given his line of work, even without the near constant excitement of escaping the men sent after Charlie at every turn. It’s hardly a peaceful life, and he’s not entirely surprised when Charlie decides to put an end to their partnership, such as it is.
Even with the solemn sort of promise Charlie gives him to magically appear whenever Peter makes use of the whistle, Peter expects this is the end. He’s never been particularly good with goodbyes, so as they part, as they tell each other to stay out of trouble, Peter just grins around the emptiness widening in his chest and asks, “Don’t I always?”
A year and a half passes, and Peter crashes through the damp wood of a door, tumbles into the empty room, bangs his hands and knees against the unyielding floor. Still furnished, he notices distantly, though everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. If he cared enough to guess, he’d wager this was a family taken by sickness, the cottage boarded up and left to rot. He kicks out, slamming the door shut behind him, and drags himself further into the room.
It took years, but some of the members of his old crew finally caught up with him. Couldn’t quite forgive him for leaving the team – especially since his version of quitting had resulted in the deaths of more than a few of them. Not his fault, he had said, as they crowded him into the corner of the tavern. They should’ve paid more attention on the job; he couldn’t be blamed if they didn’t see the arcane traps for themselves.
Only the team didn’t appreciate the cavalier attitude and tried to beat the shit out of him.
But Peter’s been dodging them for years, has been wriggling his way out of their hands for decades since they took him, with something that’s equal parts skill and luck. He escapes the tavern with only a little trouble and runs after that. He nearly gets away unscathed.
Nearly.
Except Yondu steps out – Yondu, who taught Peter everything he knows, including archery. With hardly a thought, he sends an arrow straight into Peter’s back. It staggers him, nearly sends him to the ground then and there, but Peter recovers his footing, rounds the corner, and dodges out of sight.
So here he is now, with blood crawling around the side of his shirt, dripping quietly onto the wooden floor as he forces himself to sit up. He heaves in desperate, pained breaths, sweat beading and dripping down the paling skin of his forehead and neck. The shaft of the arrow still protrudes from his back, and while he gropes for it, he can’t quite get a hold of it to pull it out, not without a near blinding pulse of pain that leaves him gasping. He has the brief, dizzying realization that it’s killing him, the sharp edge of the arrow head slicing him from the inside, letting blood drain out of him.
He probably left a trail. The old crew will probably pick up on it. If the arrow doesn’t kill him – a single, fucking arrow – they almost certainly will.
Peter probably shouldn’t laugh the way he does, panicked and near hysterical, but there it is.
His satchel lands heavily into the space between his legs, and he rummages through with a bloodied hands for something to use for bandages and dressing, something to help him get a hold of the arrow in his back. The mid-afternoon light that filters in through the boarded windows catches on something in his bag, and Peter pauses, shoves his things aside to examine it. Another breathless laugh bubbles out of him when he realizes what it is: the fucking whistle.
He lifts it out with trembling fingers, turns it over in his hands. He always figured the enchantment wouldn’t actually work, in spite of how earnestly Charlie had folded Peter’s hand over it. Like giving sweets to a child to keep him from crying. And more than that, he never had need of it. His unnatural sort of luck had always gotten him out of most trouble, albeit clumsily, and a month or two after they parted ways, Peter had forgotten about Charlie’s promise.
What the hell could it hurt to try? Peter thinks. He brings the whistle to his lips, and when he blows on it— he hears nothing, the sound carried away to someone else’s ears, though he hardly realizes that; in fact, he thinks bitterly, Even the whistle doesn’t fucking work, and as much as he wants to, he doesn’t hurl it away. He tucks it carefully into his bag.
He always did like his keepsakes.
Another minute or two passes in silence. Peter lets out self-deprecating huff of a laugh and moves on, pulls out some old rags, tries to formulate some plan on how to get himself out of this mess—
And then there’s someone else in the room with him.
He doesn’t think, just moves, yanks his dagger from its place at his belt, points its tip at the new threat as he tries to scramble back.
The dagger nearly falls from boneless fingers when he realizes who he’s staring at, face going slack with the shock of it.
Then, softly, but with feeling, ]
What the fuck.
It was a matter of practicality, at first; a matter of getting what he was owed – because even if the first pass at rescuing Charlie had been completely happenstance, the second time had been deliberate, borne of the compassion his old team had tried so hard to squash out of him. Escaping from the town, teaching Charlie how to survive, showing him the sort of tricks that existed in every conman’s arsenal – those had been purposeful, too. And maybe he taught Charlie some of the exact wrong lessons, but Peter gave him the means to survive, to slither his way out of the hands reaching out for him.
And gods, there were a lot of hands reaching for the guy.
Two weeks turn into months, and while Peter doesn’t quite give up his distrust of magic, he at least gives up his distrust of Charlie. They get along, which surprises him (and surprises Charlie, if he had to wager a guess), though Peter never gave too much of himself away. Kept his secrets to himself – especially the Mark curling between his shoulder blades, licking up his neck. (If anyone would know what to do about that stupid thing, it probably would have been Charlie; but habit kept Peter from mentioning it.)
Still, Peter quietly admits that traveling together isn’t quite as terrible as it had initially seemed. They dodge the knights in silver armor, the mercenaries, the retainers sent with manipulative messages from Charlie’s worried parents. At three months, Peter begins to wonder what lengths the Maxwells wouldn’t go to if it meant regaining their son.
But Charlie decides enough is enough, and after six months, they fake his death. They put on show worthy of a standing ovation and four encores, and when it’s over, it’s— quiet.
They breathe.
And Charlie leaves.
Six months ago, Peter would have never expected to feel so— hollow when Charlie finally decides to leave. It’s been a while since he’s traveled with anyone, had anyone to watch his back like Charlie has watched his. On a practical level, Charlie’s magic has gotten them out of more than a few binds, saved their asses when nothing else could. And on a personal level, Charlie is just— so fucking different than anyone Peter’s ever met.
He likes him.
Peter nearly asks the guy to reconsider, to stick it out; he nearly tells Charlie that he’s still welcome along, but—
They lead different lives. Peter’s life is already hectic, given his line of work, even without the near constant excitement of escaping the men sent after Charlie at every turn. It’s hardly a peaceful life, and he’s not entirely surprised when Charlie decides to put an end to their partnership, such as it is.
Even with the solemn sort of promise Charlie gives him to magically appear whenever Peter makes use of the whistle, Peter expects this is the end. He’s never been particularly good with goodbyes, so as they part, as they tell each other to stay out of trouble, Peter just grins around the emptiness widening in his chest and asks, “Don’t I always?”
A year and a half passes, and Peter crashes through the damp wood of a door, tumbles into the empty room, bangs his hands and knees against the unyielding floor. Still furnished, he notices distantly, though everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. If he cared enough to guess, he’d wager this was a family taken by sickness, the cottage boarded up and left to rot. He kicks out, slamming the door shut behind him, and drags himself further into the room.
It took years, but some of the members of his old crew finally caught up with him. Couldn’t quite forgive him for leaving the team – especially since his version of quitting had resulted in the deaths of more than a few of them. Not his fault, he had said, as they crowded him into the corner of the tavern. They should’ve paid more attention on the job; he couldn’t be blamed if they didn’t see the arcane traps for themselves.
Only the team didn’t appreciate the cavalier attitude and tried to beat the shit out of him.
But Peter’s been dodging them for years, has been wriggling his way out of their hands for decades since they took him, with something that’s equal parts skill and luck. He escapes the tavern with only a little trouble and runs after that. He nearly gets away unscathed.
Nearly.
Except Yondu steps out – Yondu, who taught Peter everything he knows, including archery. With hardly a thought, he sends an arrow straight into Peter’s back. It staggers him, nearly sends him to the ground then and there, but Peter recovers his footing, rounds the corner, and dodges out of sight.
So here he is now, with blood crawling around the side of his shirt, dripping quietly onto the wooden floor as he forces himself to sit up. He heaves in desperate, pained breaths, sweat beading and dripping down the paling skin of his forehead and neck. The shaft of the arrow still protrudes from his back, and while he gropes for it, he can’t quite get a hold of it to pull it out, not without a near blinding pulse of pain that leaves him gasping. He has the brief, dizzying realization that it’s killing him, the sharp edge of the arrow head slicing him from the inside, letting blood drain out of him.
He probably left a trail. The old crew will probably pick up on it. If the arrow doesn’t kill him – a single, fucking arrow – they almost certainly will.
Peter probably shouldn’t laugh the way he does, panicked and near hysterical, but there it is.
His satchel lands heavily into the space between his legs, and he rummages through with a bloodied hands for something to use for bandages and dressing, something to help him get a hold of the arrow in his back. The mid-afternoon light that filters in through the boarded windows catches on something in his bag, and Peter pauses, shoves his things aside to examine it. Another breathless laugh bubbles out of him when he realizes what it is: the fucking whistle.
He lifts it out with trembling fingers, turns it over in his hands. He always figured the enchantment wouldn’t actually work, in spite of how earnestly Charlie had folded Peter’s hand over it. Like giving sweets to a child to keep him from crying. And more than that, he never had need of it. His unnatural sort of luck had always gotten him out of most trouble, albeit clumsily, and a month or two after they parted ways, Peter had forgotten about Charlie’s promise.
What the hell could it hurt to try? Peter thinks. He brings the whistle to his lips, and when he blows on it— he hears nothing, the sound carried away to someone else’s ears, though he hardly realizes that; in fact, he thinks bitterly, Even the whistle doesn’t fucking work, and as much as he wants to, he doesn’t hurl it away. He tucks it carefully into his bag.
He always did like his keepsakes.
Another minute or two passes in silence. Peter lets out self-deprecating huff of a laugh and moves on, pulls out some old rags, tries to formulate some plan on how to get himself out of this mess—
And then there’s someone else in the room with him.
He doesn’t think, just moves, yanks his dagger from its place at his belt, points its tip at the new threat as he tries to scramble back.
The dagger nearly falls from boneless fingers when he realizes who he’s staring at, face going slack with the shock of it.
Then, softly, but with feeling, ]
What the fuck.
[ Charlie had been expecting to end up in any number of places, and that fact that he suddenly poofs into a rundown, dusty cabin is actually kind of a letdown until he hears a shuffle of movement behind him. He whips around to find Peter, blood seeping into his clothes and on his hands thanks to some wound Charlie can’t see, looking ready to fight for his life until recognition flashes across his face and the blade falls from his grip.
He might find it funny if not for the circumstances. ]
What, you didn’t think that would actually work?
[ He casts a glance back at the ruined door, and then back at Peter. ]
Are you being followed?
He might find it funny if not for the circumstances. ]
What, you didn’t think that would actually work?
[ He casts a glance back at the ruined door, and then back at Peter. ]
Are you being followed?
[ He swallows thickly, still gaping up at Charlie – Charlie, almost unrecognizable after a year and a half, save for the shock of blue of his eyes. It’s a rhetorical question that falls from Charlie’s lips, he knows, but Peter says dazedly, ]
... Kinda. Yeah.
[ For a second, he wonders if he might actually be hallucinating.
He finally tears his gaze away to follow Charlie’s glance to the door. It hangs slightly ajar from the hinges, slightly closed over though not fully shut, a bloody palm print on the doorjamb. ]
I don’t know.
[ A strained tremor in his voice. Peter scoops up his knife and stuffs it back in its sheath. ]
Maybe. Probably. I didn’t— Wasn’t exactly— careful. Getting away.
[ He licks his lips, lets out a shaking breath. ]
What the hell are you doing here?
... Kinda. Yeah.
[ For a second, he wonders if he might actually be hallucinating.
He finally tears his gaze away to follow Charlie’s glance to the door. It hangs slightly ajar from the hinges, slightly closed over though not fully shut, a bloody palm print on the doorjamb. ]
I don’t know.
[ A strained tremor in his voice. Peter scoops up his knife and stuffs it back in its sheath. ]
Maybe. Probably. I didn’t— Wasn’t exactly— careful. Getting away.
[ He licks his lips, lets out a shaking breath. ]
What the hell are you doing here?
Edited 2017-03-22 22:54 (UTC)
I didn’t— I didn’t think you’d actually show up.
[ He figured it was a trinket. He assumed it was just a thing. And even if it did work, it’s been a year and a half – there was nothing compelling Charlie to answer the call, whatever form that might have taken. With all the time that’s passed, Peter figured Charlie would’ve just ignored it, would’ve closed that particular chapter in his life and moved on.
When Charlie crouches beside him, Peter stills, tense and wary – a year and a half is more than enough time to throw up the old barriers and defenses, the old sense of wariness and caution – but he turns after a few moments of deliberation. The arrow digs into his back, just below his rib cage, the shaft made of a light wood and the fletching in Yondu’s signature red. ]
... Old crew found me.
[ By way of explanation. Peter may have kept more than a few secrets, but in the six months he and Charlie traveled together, he had made mention of the men and women who had found him, who raised him and trained him.
Never discussed what it was he had done before they parted ways, but at least alluded to a possible unhappy reunion. ]
[ He figured it was a trinket. He assumed it was just a thing. And even if it did work, it’s been a year and a half – there was nothing compelling Charlie to answer the call, whatever form that might have taken. With all the time that’s passed, Peter figured Charlie would’ve just ignored it, would’ve closed that particular chapter in his life and moved on.
When Charlie crouches beside him, Peter stills, tense and wary – a year and a half is more than enough time to throw up the old barriers and defenses, the old sense of wariness and caution – but he turns after a few moments of deliberation. The arrow digs into his back, just below his rib cage, the shaft made of a light wood and the fletching in Yondu’s signature red. ]
... Old crew found me.
[ By way of explanation. Peter may have kept more than a few secrets, but in the six months he and Charlie traveled together, he had made mention of the men and women who had found him, who raised him and trained him.
Never discussed what it was he had done before they parted ways, but at least alluded to a possible unhappy reunion. ]
I promised you I would.
[ As simple as that.
When Peter turns, he winces in sympathy, in part because of the arrow jutting out of Peter's back, but in part because he knows what it's like to be found by the very people you don't want finding you. ]
Hold still.
[ It's not going to be pleasant, but they need to get that arrow out. He wraps a hand around the arrow's shaft and pulls it free as best he can without worsening the damage.
The arrow goes discarded almost immediately, and Charlie presses his hands to the wound, pale blue light pulsing from his palms. Charlie's never been much of a healer, but he knows a little- enough to soothe the pain and stem the bleeding a bit. ]
[ As simple as that.
When Peter turns, he winces in sympathy, in part because of the arrow jutting out of Peter's back, but in part because he knows what it's like to be found by the very people you don't want finding you. ]
Hold still.
[ It's not going to be pleasant, but they need to get that arrow out. He wraps a hand around the arrow's shaft and pulls it free as best he can without worsening the damage.
The arrow goes discarded almost immediately, and Charlie presses his hands to the wound, pale blue light pulsing from his palms. Charlie's never been much of a healer, but he knows a little- enough to soothe the pain and stem the bleeding a bit. ]
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