[ She leans away from him – without letting go – as indignance flares in her chest.
She's used to this – but that doesn't mean it stings much less. ]
I don't go around murdering for fun.
[ He was the first person she's actively killed. She's lashed out at humans before, had to defend herself so she could escape, but she's never killed for the hell of it. ]
[ He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he makes an effort to cast his words a little more mildly. ]
I don't know you at all, but I do know that there are certain rumors that get around. Mysterious deaths and not-so mysterious deaths, with fox spirits that may or not be involved.
[ A pause, and he adds, ]
Maybe the rumors aren't true. I mean, obviously you haven't tried to kill me. I just want to make sure that if I leave you somewhere, I don't have to wonder whether or not I've just lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite.
Rumors spread by obsessive men whose egos can't tolerate the idea that a beautiful woman doesn't want him.
[ Over and over and over. ]
Our reputations are historically sullied because we happen to have the strength to defend ourselves from men who think they own us just because they find us attractive. The same thing happens every day to women who aren't huli jing; they just aren't always so lucky when a man thinks he can take what he wants.
[ And her words are so cold – venomous, even. ]
We are magic. When men fixate on us, we can hear them – every disgusting, wanton thing they think and say about us. It stays like that until they let us go, but until then, it never stops. The men like that – they already think they own any woman they lust after, and the other women don't know it until the damage is done.
We have to listen to them.
[ Bile rises in the back of her throat, and she finally releases Peter, letting her hand fall from his shoulder. ]
And nobody listens to us.
[ She starts shrugging off his jacket, wincing as she tries to compensate with her weight on one foot. ]
I'm not going to— curse you if you leave me here, or whatever the rumors say. And I am not going to hurt anyone in Silverkeep, so your conscience should be clear. You have already helped me more than you needed to, and you don't owe me anything.
[ He's not surprised that she defends herself – he knows what he's heard, and he knows what he's saying, and he knows what accusations he's making. He's not so brazen as to call her a murderer, not in so many words, but she knows what he's edging around.
So, of course she would argue it. God knows he would, too.
But that she argues so vehemently, so coldly, is what really startles him.
That paranoid voice at the back of his head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Yondu, tells him not to be an idiot. There was a reason fox spirits had a reputation like this, and that no matter how outlandish a story might be, there would always be a small grain of truth to it.
The quieter voice, the one that sounds like himself, says that the grain of truth is this: what she's telling him. That her kind has the reputation it has because of the ugly pride of men. And that's really not all that surprising, is it?
When she pulls away, he lets her, though, instinct makes him flinch out a hand to help steady her. When she starts to shrug out of his jacket, he quickly averts his gaze up to the treetops out of a sense of decorum. When she offers him his coat, he only sees a flicker of deep red out of the corner of his eye, but he figures out what the gesture is quickly enough.
He's quiet for a long moment, frowning up at the leaves, grappling with what he knows and what he's just heard.
Then, slowly, ]
I'm sorry.
[ He offers up flippant apologies pretty often; this time, at least, he sounds sincere. ]
I just hear a lot of stories. Rumors. In this line of work, having the sort of skepticism that borders on paranoia tends to save your hide.
[ He lets out a slow breath, looking toward her, but keeping his gaze on her face. ]
Silverkeep is about two days' travel from here.
[ Which will take even longer on a broken foot. ]
If you wanna go your own way, I won't stop you. But I can still help you get there.
[ Yan has had decades now to endure the misconceptions and prejudices of humans and other races who believed the worst of her kind. She tries not to get involved often, for that very reason, but when she lets herself seek company from the inevitable loneliness that comes with solitude, she can forget – at least for a moment – what people expect her to be. She's never felt that she's been seen as what and who she is, in the same hand; when others look at her, they see a human or a huli jing. One is welcomed readily, and the other deals with... this.
At least he isn't trying to kill her. All things considered, this is probably one of the least distressing interactions she's had with a human who knows what she is.
Somehow, it isn't easier.
She waits for him to take his coat, letting the silence drag between them. The longer it stretches, the more antsy she gets, and she finds herself watching Peter's hands, waiting for him to reach for a weapon.
(He has every advantage. It would be laughably easy, and that's what terrifies her right now.)
Yan waits. And waits. And when she's just about ready to drop his jacket and try to run, he speaks.
The apology is so foreign that, at first, she thinks she might have imagined it. Her shock is plain on her face, the guarded, hardened expression dropping away in a heartbeat as she stares at him and listens to him speak. Again, she knows she's an easy target right now, and she doesn't understand why he's bothering to mislead her, why he's wasting breath on lies, unless—
—he really means what he says.
And gods, he's— he's looking at her face. He's looking at her, and not trying to sneak a lingering, lascivious glimpse before she shifts. He's not taking advantage of the fact that she's naked and hobbled and vulnerable, as much as she may hate to admit it. She's so stunned by the offer, by his sincerity, that she can only stare at him in her own moment of silence. She's trying to pick the dishonesty out of his eyes, trying to dig up where he's misleading her, but—
She hates how much she wants to believe him.
(She hates how much she wants a shred of acceptance.)
Careful, still watching him for any signs of a betrayal, she lowers his jacket again. She's tentative as she slides it back on, reaching out to brace herself on Peter's arm as she gets the red leather wrapped around herself properly. ]
[ Once she's dressed – as dressed as she can be, anyway, considering he only currently has a coat to offer her – he shifts back to a more natural position, holding still while she steadies herself. ]
Peter Quill.
[ There's another name he wants to go by eventually, once he's a little more renowned; for now, he figures this is enough. ]
[ And that makes Peter pause as well, casting her a quick, sidelong glance. ]
Are you being serious?
[ Despite the word choice, he mostly sounds warily hopeful. Small town that Silverkeep is, the alchemist had offered up a surprising amount of gold for his job – which should have told Peter everything he needed to know about how secretly difficult it was. ]
I found all the other crap the alchemist asked for, but this stupid marten is holding me up.
They're rare, but I have hunted them before; I know what they smell like. They have dens all through these woods, and I could find one on our way to the town.
[ Because with that tracker on her, Peter would rather not dally. There's really no telling how much these bounty hunters might want Yan, and there's no telling how confident they are in their traps – but the more time spent fucking around is more time given to those hunters to catch up.
Peter is involving himself more than he likes, as it is. He'd rather not get forced into some kind of confrontation on top of it all. ]
Besides, I dunno how much tracking you wanna do with a broken foot.
[ The thought isn't immediate, but there's a part of Yan that's appreciative that Peter isn't immediately leaping on her offer to take advantage of her abilities.
[ He casts her a quick, sidelong glance, noting the smile on her face. It's almost a little surprising that she manages one, given how fucked this situation is, but it puts him a little at ease, at least. ]
If you notice something and it's not too out of our way, I'd appreciate if you pointed it out.
But let's not go too out of our way for it. I don't think we're gonna have much time to wander.
[ Peter's used to hearing a lot of shit about how humans don't really seem to specialize in anything, which means he's gotten used to having to defend himself, too. Enough so that it's more automatic than actually defensive. ]
It doesn't help that this species is like trying to track down a needle in a haystack, either.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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This is going to be fun.
She stiffens a little, stopping short in her half-hopping. ]
What is that supposed to mean?
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[ A beat, as he tries to consider if he should do this diplomatically.
—apparently not, because what he decides to say is, ]
If someone winds up dead there? That'll be on me.
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She's used to this – but that doesn't mean it stings much less. ]
I don't go around murdering for fun.
[ He was the first person she's actively killed. She's lashed out at humans before, had to defend herself so she could escape, but she's never killed for the hell of it. ]
I hunt chickens, not men.
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I don't know you at all, but I do know that there are certain rumors that get around. Mysterious deaths and not-so mysterious deaths, with fox spirits that may or not be involved.
[ A pause, and he adds, ]
Maybe the rumors aren't true. I mean, obviously you haven't tried to kill me. I just want to make sure that if I leave you somewhere, I don't have to wonder whether or not I've just lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite.
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[ Over and over and over. ]
Our reputations are historically sullied because we happen to have the strength to defend ourselves from men who think they own us just because they find us attractive. The same thing happens every day to women who aren't huli jing; they just aren't always so lucky when a man thinks he can take what he wants.
[ And her words are so cold – venomous, even. ]
We are magic. When men fixate on us, we can hear them – every disgusting, wanton thing they think and say about us. It stays like that until they let us go, but until then, it never stops. The men like that – they already think they own any woman they lust after, and the other women don't know it until the damage is done.
We have to listen to them.
[ Bile rises in the back of her throat, and she finally releases Peter, letting her hand fall from his shoulder. ]
And nobody listens to us.
[ She starts shrugging off his jacket, wincing as she tries to compensate with her weight on one foot. ]
I'm not going to— curse you if you leave me here, or whatever the rumors say. And I am not going to hurt anyone in Silverkeep, so your conscience should be clear. You have already helped me more than you needed to, and you don't owe me anything.
[ She holds his jacket out. ]
So— thank you. I will figure it out.
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So, of course she would argue it. God knows he would, too.
But that she argues so vehemently, so coldly, is what really startles him.
That paranoid voice at the back of his head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Yondu, tells him not to be an idiot. There was a reason fox spirits had a reputation like this, and that no matter how outlandish a story might be, there would always be a small grain of truth to it.
The quieter voice, the one that sounds like himself, says that the grain of truth is this: what she's telling him. That her kind has the reputation it has because of the ugly pride of men. And that's really not all that surprising, is it?
When she pulls away, he lets her, though, instinct makes him flinch out a hand to help steady her. When she starts to shrug out of his jacket, he quickly averts his gaze up to the treetops out of a sense of decorum. When she offers him his coat, he only sees a flicker of deep red out of the corner of his eye, but he figures out what the gesture is quickly enough.
He's quiet for a long moment, frowning up at the leaves, grappling with what he knows and what he's just heard.
Then, slowly, ]
I'm sorry.
[ He offers up flippant apologies pretty often; this time, at least, he sounds sincere. ]
I just hear a lot of stories. Rumors. In this line of work, having the sort of skepticism that borders on paranoia tends to save your hide.
[ He lets out a slow breath, looking toward her, but keeping his gaze on her face. ]
Silverkeep is about two days' travel from here.
[ Which will take even longer on a broken foot. ]
If you wanna go your own way, I won't stop you. But I can still help you get there.
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At least he isn't trying to kill her. All things considered, this is probably one of the least distressing interactions she's had with a human who knows what she is.
Somehow, it isn't easier.
She waits for him to take his coat, letting the silence drag between them. The longer it stretches, the more antsy she gets, and she finds herself watching Peter's hands, waiting for him to reach for a weapon.
(He has every advantage. It would be laughably easy, and that's what terrifies her right now.)
Yan waits. And waits. And when she's just about ready to drop his jacket and try to run, he speaks.
The apology is so foreign that, at first, she thinks she might have imagined it. Her shock is plain on her face, the guarded, hardened expression dropping away in a heartbeat as she stares at him and listens to him speak. Again, she knows she's an easy target right now, and she doesn't understand why he's bothering to mislead her, why he's wasting breath on lies, unless—
—he really means what he says.
And gods, he's— he's looking at her face. He's looking at her, and not trying to sneak a lingering, lascivious glimpse before she shifts. He's not taking advantage of the fact that she's naked and hobbled and vulnerable, as much as she may hate to admit it. She's so stunned by the offer, by his sincerity, that she can only stare at him in her own moment of silence. She's trying to pick the dishonesty out of his eyes, trying to dig up where he's misleading her, but—
She hates how much she wants to believe him.
(She hates how much she wants a shred of acceptance.)
Careful, still watching him for any signs of a betrayal, she lowers his jacket again. She's tentative as she slides it back on, reaching out to brace herself on Peter's arm as she gets the red leather wrapped around herself properly. ]
What's your name?
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Peter Quill.
[ There's another name he wants to go by eventually, once he's a little more renowned; for now, he figures this is enough. ]
You?
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[ Just a first name, no last – because huli jing don't have families.
She hesitates before speaking again, as they're finally moving forward. ]
What was the weasel you were tracking?
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The gold-faced marten.
[ If it seems like there's a hint of bitterness in his voice, it's only because there is. ]
An alchemist in Silverkeep is trying to make some kind of potion and needs some of its droppings. Damn things are almost impossible to find, though.
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I can find that for you, if you want. I can track their dens by scent.
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Are you being serious?
[ Despite the word choice, he mostly sounds warily hopeful. Small town that Silverkeep is, the alchemist had offered up a surprising amount of gold for his job – which should have told Peter everything he needed to know about how secretly difficult it was. ]
I found all the other crap the alchemist asked for, but this stupid marten is holding me up.
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They're rare, but I have hunted them before; I know what they smell like. They have dens all through these woods, and I could find one on our way to the town.
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If it's on the way.
[ Because with that tracker on her, Peter would rather not dally. There's really no telling how much these bounty hunters might want Yan, and there's no telling how confident they are in their traps – but the more time spent fucking around is more time given to those hunters to catch up.
Peter is involving himself more than he likes, as it is. He'd rather not get forced into some kind of confrontation on top of it all. ]
Besides, I dunno how much tracking you wanna do with a broken foot.
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It makes her want to help him more. ]
I don't have to put my nose on the ground.
[ Her lips lift in a crooked little smile. ]
I could manage it.
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If you notice something and it's not too out of our way, I'd appreciate if you pointed it out.
But let's not go too out of our way for it. I don't think we're gonna have much time to wander.
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[ And the longer she spends with the rune, with her broken foot, the longer she's vulnerable. It's not an appealing thought. ]
But I'll pay attention to our surroundings, now that I know what you need.
[ It's a small favor, in her eyes; after he's going out of his way, it seems only fair. ]
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Now that we're talking about this, it seems like overkill to get a fox spirit involved in helping me find weasel shit.
[ Gods, his life is fucking weird sometimes. ]
But I appreciate it.
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[ Her tone is just a bit lighter, actually teasing him this time. ]
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In my defense, I did find one, but it got scared off.
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[ That little smile of hers is sly, teasing – foxlike. ]
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Then, a little sullenly, ]
Shut up.
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Soft, sweet, but warm – a genuine laugh. ]
It's not your fault humans aren't made for tracking.
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We get by.
[ Peter's used to hearing a lot of shit about how humans don't really seem to specialize in anything, which means he's gotten used to having to defend himself, too. Enough so that it's more automatic than actually defensive. ]
It doesn't help that this species is like trying to track down a needle in a haystack, either.
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No, these martens are hard for most to track down, no matter how much they might be predators. They're very fast, and very good at being sneaky.
It probably has something to do with their fey blood.
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