[ Like he figured, the shit with Monica Ramirez is boring as shit.
It's a lot of small talk. A lot of "So, how's things?" only more politely, with fancier words. At the very least, the visit involves an early dinner and drinks, and Peter can blame his quietness on eating and drinking.
(He surreptitiously has to watch Gamora as she selects the proper utensils.
He doesn't get why anyone needs so many fucking forks.)
Still, to his credit, Peter does a decent job of acting like he didn't have his entire world thrown upside down last night. The physical stuff has always come easy, anyway, and he has no problem with keeping an arm curled around Gamora's waist, or with letting her arm loop through his. He manages to be charming and funny, though much like he had during last night's party, he defers to Gamora to do the heavy lifting in the conversation.
He positions himself on Gamora's injured side during their visit, helping to bear her weight as they walk through Monica's gallery of collected art pieces. Thankfully, they wander at a leisurely pace as Monica talks about each painting and sculpture – the whens and hows of her acquisitions, the artists responsible for them, and their not insignificant price tags. Peter tunes most of it out, watching Gamora from the corner of his eye for any signs of discomfort. He knows she must be in pain, but she's hiding it well.
By the time they've finished and made promises to meet again for lunch, it's pushing almost 8 o'clock. Hardly late, but it's felt like a long-ass evening. Peter's a little worried Gamora may have reached her limit.
They're walking back to Gamora's borrowed classic car (naturally, they parked it themselves, since the leather interior is stained with blood), and Peter lets out a long breath. ]
Despite the upset the night before with the attempted break-in, Ramirez's security is no more stringent than what Gamora would naturally expect, and there aren't as many eyes on them as she'd worried they might find. And, as she'd admitted earlier in the day, the night is easier with Peter there – partially, because he puts her at ease, and partially because he actually makes an effort to make the trip as physically painless as possible. She swallowed a fistful of ibuprofen before they left, and the anti-inflammatories sawed the edge off of the throbbing wound in her side, but it still wears on her the longer she has to stand around in uncomfortable shoes.
She doesn't entirely realize how much she ends up leaning on Peter as the night progresses.
It's only been a few hours by the time they take their leave, but Gamora felt the time drag all the way up to their goodbyes. When they're finally walking back to the rental car, Gamora almost sags against Peter. ]
... I'm fine.
[ Exhausted, wrung-out, a little hoarse, but she's still on her feet, still taking steady steps.
She reaches into her pocket, producing the car keys, and she holds them out to Peter. ]
[ It's the answer he expects, but he doesn't look particularly happy about it.
Especially since her steps are slow, especially since she sounds exhausted.
Still, he doesn't have to be told twice to drive. (He's already asked at least once or twice – complete with a grating, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease? – but was shot down.) He takes the keys (maybe a little eagerly, but can you blame him?), but he's mindful enough to help Gamora into the passenger side of the car, first.
The interior still has a metallic sent to it that makes his stomach flip. The driver's side seat is darkened by blood stains, which basically guarantees they won't be getting valet parking for the rest of Gamora's trip. He slips into the driver's side, sliding the key into the ignition, and when the engine purrs to life—
He hesitates. ]
Are you sure you're okay? We can just go straight back to the hotel.
[ Gamora sinks into the passenger seat as soon as she sits down. It's a relief not to hold a particular posture, to let her body unwind and allow the pain to dictate the most comfortable way she can rest.
Peter's asking after her again, and she tilts her head to look at him, quiet and tired – but determined. ]
I want to do this.
[ Now that a potential option sits on the horizon, a way out, Gamora isn't going to waste so much as a day. ]
He still doesn't like it. But that's for personal, and above all selfish reasons.
But he puts the car into gear, driving away from the Ramirez's estate. (He doesn't peel out like he's half-tempted to, like he's been wanting to since he first slipped inside of it.) It's about a half hour to get into Downtown LA, and Peter spends a good part of the drive in silence, just giving Gamora a chance to rest.
Then, he clears his throat a little awkwardly. ]
You should, uh. Probably know some stuff, first. About me and Yondu.
[ Gamora doesn't let herself fall asleep, but she dozes lightly in the quiet of the dark car, listening only to the purring engine and the distant sound of the city outside her window.
Peter finally makes a noise, and Gamora opens her eyes, tilting her head against the headrest to look at him again. That's... a strange lead-in, especially after it seemed like Peter had already told her about his connection to Yondu. ]
She sits up a little straighter – then quickly thinks better of it when her side twinges sharply. She slumps back against the seat, reflexively curling an arm around her middle. ]
[ His gaze flits over when he sees the flash of movement, catches the way her hand goes to her side, and he lets out an instinctive, ]
Careful.
[ He pauses again, thinking of a way to explain the situation. Peter isn't exactly a saint, and he's certainly not reformed, but he's done a lot of shit he isn't proud of – most of which happened while he was in Yondu's gang. ]
I was... really good. At what I did. I'm not bragging when I say I was the best and brightest in Yondu's gang – mostly 'cause, honestly, that's not saying much. But I was the best he had. I tried to leverage that by asking for a bigger cut on my jobs.
He said no. Said it wouldn't be fair to the others to let me have special privileges.
[ He huffs out a breath, shifting gears with more force than strictly necessary. ]
It pissed me off. I spent a few months just letting it fester, and I realized I was just— sick of it all. So about a year ago, I took my last job.
[ In a distant way, Gamora can relate to this – being good, being the best, but trying to get out scot-free. At least Peter's still alive now, so that hopefully means this Yondu wasn't too set on making Peter pay (though maybe Gamora is too accustomed to Thanos's means of doing business), but... ]
I mean, he's known me for a while, so it's not like he didn't know how I operated. He knew where I'd be, so he and a couple of his guys tracked me down, roughed me up a little, made me give him back every last dime of the job's payment.
Told me he was kicking me out of his gang – which was pointless, since I'd already quit.
[ Petty? Peter? Never. ]
Said he didn't wanna see my face ever again, unless I was coming back on my hands and knees to grovel for forgiveness.
[ The fact that Yondu technically gave Peter an option to return is a little surprising – but, from a business standpoint, when someone is your best asset, a little ego-pandering might be satisfactory retribution in exchange for getting said asset back. ]
Since you're not coming back for yourself, do you think he'll let it slide?
[ Gamora can also offer him a lot of money, so she hopes that means points in Peter's favor. ]
[ Though he can’t quite help the reluctance that edges into his voice.
He falls silent after that, letting Gamora get a little more rest as they get closer to their destination. Admittedly, it’s something of a mood whiplash, driving from the wealthy, pristine areas in Beverly Hills to the shadier parts of town, but Peter’s too preoccupied to notice.
He wishes he wasn’t dressed the way he was, in clothing that cost more than he would normally make in a week. He wishes they could’ve stopped back at his shitty apartment on the way to the bar so he could swap into a pair of jeans and a threadbare t-shirt, just so he could feel more like himself and less like some beat-up doll that’s been dressed up, but, well, Gamora already said: She wants this to be done. And he knows it’s probably better to get this over with as soon as possible, like ripping off a stubborn bandage.
He at least ditches the necktie, tossing it into the backseat.
Peter knows his way around the city, but eventually, they hit a stretch where each turn is practically instinctive. (They ought to be, after all. He used to go to The Arrow almost every day of his adult life.) He stops up short, though, as he promised, parking on the street and hoping that no one will get the bright idea to break in while they’re gone. He shoves the car keys into his pocket as he climbs out of the car, hurrying to help Gamora out of the passenger side. ]
It’s not too far from here.
I’d tell you to act tough, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got that handled.
[ Gamora isn’t about to let the opportunity slip by for a few extra moments of rest, and she’s almost disappointed when the car slows to a stop. Peter beats her to the door (which isn’t surprising when she’s so slow-going in deference to her side), but she unbuckles and slides out. She casts him a somewhat bland look, eyebrow cocked as she straightens up. ]
I have dealt with thugs like this before, Peter.
[ Her work for her father didn’t always guarantee she’d dispatch white collar crime lords; plenty of gangs and mercenaries had found themselves on the end of her knives and bullets.
... She distantly has the realization that she may not need an introduction when they walk into the Arrow.
But maybe her father’s reputation doesn’t run through this branch of the seedy underworld. ]
[ He looks uncertain for a second, nearly saying, "You haven't dealt with thugs like these."
But— maybe she has. Last night proved that he knew far less about Gamora than he ever thought he did. He probably shouldn't flatter himself in thinking that she's fucked with anyone tougher than the folks he's tangled with.
He positions himself on her wounded side again, letting her lean her weight against him as they make the short walk over to the club. The Arrow is a rundown nightclub that pretends it might have once had better days, but probably always started out looking rough around the edges. The bouncer at the door doesn't do much more than cast the two of them steely-eyed, suspicious looks. Peter recognizes him, but the bouncer doesn't seem to recognize Peter.
The club isn't exactly packed, but it's busy enough that the members of Yondu's gang clearly aren't the only customers. It boasts two floors, though the second floor isn't much more than a mezzanine overlooking the first floor. Dancers taking up a modest amount of space in the main area, with other customers milling around standing tables or lounging in booths. Loud music blares over the speakers, the bass drumming through the floor. The place stinks of alcohol and the faint undercurrent of sweat.
He almost missed this place.
He's carefully maneuvering them toward the stairs, except a tall, thin, greasy-looking guy with an asymmetrical undercut steps in their path. He stinks of beer, swaying a little as he flashes the two of them a feral grin. ]
Well, if it ain't li'l ol' Petey. Almost didn't recognize you in them fancy clothes.
[ He reaches out, tugging on the lapel of Peter's jacket. Peter bats his hand away, instinctively pushing Gamora behind him. ]
Get out of my way, Halfnut—
[ But Halfnut grabs the front of Peter's shirt, eyes flashing. ]
Now, that ain't no way to treat an old friend, is it?
[ The Arrow isn’t anything special. Gamora has seen more than her fair share of seedy clubs, and this one feels like any of the number of sleazy places she’s ducked in and out of for various jobs. For all that Peter has had to accompany her to the more upstanding sort of events, Gamora has spent plenty of nights slumming around these joints when work called for it.
She does, however, quickly find herself wishing she’d thought to bring a change of clothes.
Hindsight.
Despite her injury and her exhaustion, she watches the floor with shrewd eyes, the practiced alertness that’s come with years of training. It’s that same training that makes the instinct subtle, instead of that conspicuous peering around that might turn heads. She stops up short when someone steps into their path, and she sizes up the drunk man quickly – immediately disregarding his threat, despite his belligerence.
Peter seems to unwittingly try to herd Gamora back, clear of this “Halfnut,” but as soon as the man’s fists close in Peter’s shirt, Gamora takes a short step to the side, and her hand snaps out – quick as lightning. Her fingers immediately find the pressure points in Halfnut’s wrist, and she squeezes with the kind of pressure that threatens a break with the wrong move. ]
He hardly gets to grab Halfnut's wrist before Gamora's already there, and both Peter and Halfnut gawk at her for a split-second. The pain hits soon enough, though, and Halfnut squawks, quickly releasing Peter's shirt.
In a pained whine, ]
I wasn't doin' nothin'—
[ They're starting to draw some unwanted attention from other guests, and Peter glances around a little nervously, already feeling cornered. He doesn't recognize any of his other old teammates, but a year is along time – there could be new recruits he doesn't know about. Getting ganged up on now and kicked out of the club before they can even make it to Yondu would be a really shitty end to this night. ]
[ As quickly as Gamora grabbed Halfnut, she releases him when he drops Peter’s shirt. She glances up at Peter with a small frown, her eyes turning back to the stairs. ]
[ Halfnut, backs off, grabbing hold of his wrist and cradling it against his chest. ]
I'm gonna kick your ass, Quill. You goddamn coward, hiding behind some hot piece of ass—
[ Peter shoulders past him, after that, grabbing Gamora's hand to pull her along.
The confrontation had the small benefit of clearing a small space around them, at least, with guests trying to avoid getting caught up in a fight. (Not that a fight would be uncommon around here; Peter remembers at least one or two breaking out a night, not all of them started by Ravagers.) As they make their way toward the stairs, Peter feels eyes on them, after that, some of them unrecognizing but curious, and some of them weighty and sharp in a way that makes the back of his neck prickle.
Unconsciously, his hand tightens around Gamora's, his body tense as he tries to ignore the daggers being glared at them. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lmk if you'd rather do something different!
It's a lot of small talk. A lot of "So, how's things?" only more politely, with fancier words. At the very least, the visit involves an early dinner and drinks, and Peter can blame his quietness on eating and drinking.
(He surreptitiously has to watch Gamora as she selects the proper utensils.
He doesn't get why anyone needs so many fucking forks.)
Still, to his credit, Peter does a decent job of acting like he didn't have his entire world thrown upside down last night. The physical stuff has always come easy, anyway, and he has no problem with keeping an arm curled around Gamora's waist, or with letting her arm loop through his. He manages to be charming and funny, though much like he had during last night's party, he defers to Gamora to do the heavy lifting in the conversation.
He positions himself on Gamora's injured side during their visit, helping to bear her weight as they walk through Monica's gallery of collected art pieces. Thankfully, they wander at a leisurely pace as Monica talks about each painting and sculpture – the whens and hows of her acquisitions, the artists responsible for them, and their not insignificant price tags. Peter tunes most of it out, watching Gamora from the corner of his eye for any signs of discomfort. He knows she must be in pain, but she's hiding it well.
By the time they've finished and made promises to meet again for lunch, it's pushing almost 8 o'clock. Hardly late, but it's felt like a long-ass evening. Peter's a little worried Gamora may have reached her limit.
They're walking back to Gamora's borrowed classic car (naturally, they parked it themselves, since the leather interior is stained with blood), and Peter lets out a long breath. ]
Doing okay?
(^・ω・^ )
Despite the upset the night before with the attempted break-in, Ramirez's security is no more stringent than what Gamora would naturally expect, and there aren't as many eyes on them as she'd worried they might find. And, as she'd admitted earlier in the day, the night is easier with Peter there – partially, because he puts her at ease, and partially because he actually makes an effort to make the trip as physically painless as possible. She swallowed a fistful of ibuprofen before they left, and the anti-inflammatories sawed the edge off of the throbbing wound in her side, but it still wears on her the longer she has to stand around in uncomfortable shoes.
She doesn't entirely realize how much she ends up leaning on Peter as the night progresses.
It's only been a few hours by the time they take their leave, but Gamora felt the time drag all the way up to their goodbyes. When they're finally walking back to the rental car, Gamora almost sags against Peter. ]
... I'm fine.
[ Exhausted, wrung-out, a little hoarse, but she's still on her feet, still taking steady steps.
She reaches into her pocket, producing the car keys, and she holds them out to Peter. ]
You drive.
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Especially since her steps are slow, especially since she sounds exhausted.
Still, he doesn't have to be told twice to drive. (He's already asked at least once or twice – complete with a grating, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease? – but was shot down.) He takes the keys (maybe a little eagerly, but can you blame him?), but he's mindful enough to help Gamora into the passenger side of the car, first.
The interior still has a metallic sent to it that makes his stomach flip. The driver's side seat is darkened by blood stains, which basically guarantees they won't be getting valet parking for the rest of Gamora's trip. He slips into the driver's side, sliding the key into the ignition, and when the engine purrs to life—
He hesitates. ]
Are you sure you're okay? We can just go straight back to the hotel.
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Peter's asking after her again, and she tilts her head to look at him, quiet and tired – but determined. ]
I want to do this.
[ Now that a potential option sits on the horizon, a way out, Gamora isn't going to waste so much as a day. ]
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He still doesn't like it. But that's for personal, and above all selfish reasons.
But he puts the car into gear, driving away from the Ramirez's estate. (He doesn't peel out like he's half-tempted to, like he's been wanting to since he first slipped inside of it.) It's about a half hour to get into Downtown LA, and Peter spends a good part of the drive in silence, just giving Gamora a chance to rest.
Then, he clears his throat a little awkwardly. ]
You should, uh. Probably know some stuff, first. About me and Yondu.
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Peter finally makes a noise, and Gamora opens her eyes, tilting her head against the headrest to look at him again. That's... a strange lead-in, especially after it seemed like Peter had already told her about his connection to Yondu. ]
All right. What should I know?
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The two of us didn't part on the best of terms.
[ A beat, as he realizes he's probably burying the lede, here. He adds, ]
He may have promised to kick my ass the next time we crossed paths.
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She sits up a little straighter – then quickly thinks better of it when her side twinges sharply. She slumps back against the seat, reflexively curling an arm around her middle. ]
Why?
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Careful.
[ He pauses again, thinking of a way to explain the situation. Peter isn't exactly a saint, and he's certainly not reformed, but he's done a lot of shit he isn't proud of – most of which happened while he was in Yondu's gang. ]
I was... really good. At what I did. I'm not bragging when I say I was the best and brightest in Yondu's gang – mostly 'cause, honestly, that's not saying much. But I was the best he had. I tried to leverage that by asking for a bigger cut on my jobs.
He said no. Said it wouldn't be fair to the others to let me have special privileges.
[ He huffs out a breath, shifting gears with more force than strictly necessary. ]
It pissed me off. I spent a few months just letting it fester, and I realized I was just— sick of it all. So about a year ago, I took my last job.
But I tried to keep the money.
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And after you took the money?
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I mean, he's known me for a while, so it's not like he didn't know how I operated. He knew where I'd be, so he and a couple of his guys tracked me down, roughed me up a little, made me give him back every last dime of the job's payment.
Told me he was kicking me out of his gang – which was pointless, since I'd already quit.
[ Petty? Peter? Never. ]
Said he didn't wanna see my face ever again, unless I was coming back on my hands and knees to grovel for forgiveness.
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Since you're not coming back for yourself, do you think he'll let it slide?
[ Gamora can also offer him a lot of money, so she hopes that means points in Peter's favor. ]
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That's the thing. I'm trying to figure out if you're better off with or without me there.
He was pretty clear about what would happen if we crossed paths again. What he'd do depending how it happened.
Hell, I could make a flow chart, if you wanted.
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[ She leans back with a sigh, maintaining some of the pressure on her side. ]
If you need to leave to avoid an altercation, you can. I don't want this putting you at risk.
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[ And there's a heavy helping of sarcasm in his voice. ]
It'd be real cool of me to send you alone into a club full of paranoid, trigger-happy dickwads while you're almost dead on your feet.
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[ Gamora knows how to shut off pain in order to survive; she knows how to use her adrenaline to push through disastrous injury.
That doesn’t mean she makes a habit of it. ]
... But I would prefer if you were there.
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[ He loses some of the attitude, at least, replacing it with a sort of weariness.
He hasn't been to The Arrow in nearly a year. He could have happily gone another twelve months avoiding it.
He lets out a slow breath. ]
I'm gonna park a few blocks away. We'll have to walk the rest of the way.
[ Never a good idea to park an expensive-ass car like this next to the haunt of a gang known for running a chop shop. ]
You sure you're feelin' up to it? 'Cause we can try this in a couple hours, instead.
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Gamora can’t blame him.
She shakes her head firmly, though her voice is slightly quieter. ]
I just want this to be done.
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[ Though he can’t quite help the reluctance that edges into his voice.
He falls silent after that, letting Gamora get a little more rest as they get closer to their destination. Admittedly, it’s something of a mood whiplash, driving from the wealthy, pristine areas in Beverly Hills to the shadier parts of town, but Peter’s too preoccupied to notice.
He wishes he wasn’t dressed the way he was, in clothing that cost more than he would normally make in a week. He wishes they could’ve stopped back at his shitty apartment on the way to the bar so he could swap into a pair of jeans and a threadbare t-shirt, just so he could feel more like himself and less like some beat-up doll that’s been dressed up, but, well, Gamora already said: She wants this to be done. And he knows it’s probably better to get this over with as soon as possible, like ripping off a stubborn bandage.
He at least ditches the necktie, tossing it into the backseat.
Peter knows his way around the city, but eventually, they hit a stretch where each turn is practically instinctive. (They ought to be, after all. He used to go to The Arrow almost every day of his adult life.) He stops up short, though, as he promised, parking on the street and hoping that no one will get the bright idea to break in while they’re gone. He shoves the car keys into his pocket as he climbs out of the car, hurrying to help Gamora out of the passenger side. ]
It’s not too far from here.
I’d tell you to act tough, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got that handled.
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I have dealt with thugs like this before, Peter.
[ Her work for her father didn’t always guarantee she’d dispatch white collar crime lords; plenty of gangs and mercenaries had found themselves on the end of her knives and bullets.
... She distantly has the realization that she may not need an introduction when they walk into the Arrow.
But maybe her father’s reputation doesn’t run through this branch of the seedy underworld. ]
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But— maybe she has. Last night proved that he knew far less about Gamora than he ever thought he did. He probably shouldn't flatter himself in thinking that she's fucked with anyone tougher than the folks he's tangled with.
He positions himself on her wounded side again, letting her lean her weight against him as they make the short walk over to the club. The Arrow is a rundown nightclub that pretends it might have once had better days, but probably always started out looking rough around the edges. The bouncer at the door doesn't do much more than cast the two of them steely-eyed, suspicious looks. Peter recognizes him, but the bouncer doesn't seem to recognize Peter.
The club isn't exactly packed, but it's busy enough that the members of Yondu's gang clearly aren't the only customers. It boasts two floors, though the second floor isn't much more than a mezzanine overlooking the first floor. Dancers taking up a modest amount of space in the main area, with other customers milling around standing tables or lounging in booths. Loud music blares over the speakers, the bass drumming through the floor. The place stinks of alcohol and the faint undercurrent of sweat.
He almost missed this place.
He's carefully maneuvering them toward the stairs, except a tall, thin, greasy-looking guy with an asymmetrical undercut steps in their path. He stinks of beer, swaying a little as he flashes the two of them a feral grin. ]
Well, if it ain't li'l ol' Petey. Almost didn't recognize you in them fancy clothes.
[ He reaches out, tugging on the lapel of Peter's jacket. Peter bats his hand away, instinctively pushing Gamora behind him. ]
Get out of my way, Halfnut—
[ But Halfnut grabs the front of Peter's shirt, eyes flashing. ]
Now, that ain't no way to treat an old friend, is it?
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She does, however, quickly find herself wishing she’d thought to bring a change of clothes.
Hindsight.
Despite her injury and her exhaustion, she watches the floor with shrewd eyes, the practiced alertness that’s come with years of training. It’s that same training that makes the instinct subtle, instead of that conspicuous peering around that might turn heads. She stops up short when someone steps into their path, and she sizes up the drunk man quickly – immediately disregarding his threat, despite his belligerence.
Peter seems to unwittingly try to herd Gamora back, clear of this “Halfnut,” but as soon as the man’s fists close in Peter’s shirt, Gamora takes a short step to the side, and her hand snaps out – quick as lightning. Her fingers immediately find the pressure points in Halfnut’s wrist, and she squeezes with the kind of pressure that threatens a break with the wrong move. ]
Let go of him.
Now.
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He hardly gets to grab Halfnut's wrist before Gamora's already there, and both Peter and Halfnut gawk at her for a split-second. The pain hits soon enough, though, and Halfnut squawks, quickly releasing Peter's shirt.
In a pained whine, ]
I wasn't doin' nothin'—
[ They're starting to draw some unwanted attention from other guests, and Peter glances around a little nervously, already feeling cornered. He doesn't recognize any of his other old teammates, but a year is along time – there could be new recruits he doesn't know about. Getting ganged up on now and kicked out of the club before they can even make it to Yondu would be a really shitty end to this night. ]
Gamora, it's cool. Let's just go.
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We came here for a reason.
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[ Halfnut, backs off, grabbing hold of his wrist and cradling it against his chest. ]
I'm gonna kick your ass, Quill. You goddamn coward, hiding behind some hot piece of ass—
[ Peter shoulders past him, after that, grabbing Gamora's hand to pull her along.
The confrontation had the small benefit of clearing a small space around them, at least, with guests trying to avoid getting caught up in a fight. (Not that a fight would be uncommon around here; Peter remembers at least one or two breaking out a night, not all of them started by Ravagers.) As they make their way toward the stairs, Peter feels eyes on them, after that, some of them unrecognizing but curious, and some of them weighty and sharp in a way that makes the back of his neck prickle.
Unconsciously, his hand tightens around Gamora's, his body tense as he tries to ignore the daggers being glared at them. ]
You didn't have to do that. I had it handled.
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