[ 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. ]
[ Which is to say, Peter didn't expect her to actually listen to him.
They finally start climbing the stairs, though, walking around the folks loitering on the steps. ]
Yondu's usually hanging out up here. Likes having a good vantage point, I guess. We get in, ask him if he can connect you with someone who can forge you some papers, and hopefully I can get out of here with my face intact.
[ Wisely, he keeps the very real possibility of them ganging up on the two of them to himself.
(It seems like he would absolutely jinx them if he spoke the words aloud.)
The mezzanine isn't exactly impressive, but it does afford a decent view of the entrance and the modest dance floor below. The folks hanging out up here are looking for more privacy, and more than a few couples have found their ways into the various dark corners to make-out or fuck. It stinks of tobacco and weed (and cotton candy, thanks to one shameless vaper) up here.
But they're stopped once again, this time by a man about Peter's age. Scrawny, once again, with silvered teeth and criss-crossing scars over his left temple. On either side of him are two other guys, just as rough-looking, though maybe not quite as sober. ]
Long time, no see, Pete. You're lookin' real fancy.
Kraglin. You're looking extra shitty.
[ Kraglin, at least, seems to have a sense of humor, and the corner of his mouth curls upward. His amusement fades not long after. ]
What the hell're you doin' here?
I'm here to see Yondu.
Good. You finally here to beg the boss for forgiveness?
Pretty sure hell will freeze over, first.
[ Kraglin sighs, annoyed more than anything. ] Then you don't got no business bein' here, do you?
[ The three men straighten, shifting forward like they've spent days rehearsing this, but Peter holds his ground. ]
Just let me through, guys. I've got a proposition for him.
[ Behind Kraglin, a slightly overweight man with coke-bottle glasses laughs. ] You're doin' a whole lotta propositionin' these days, ain't ya, Pete?
Fuck you, Geff—
Why? You offerin' discounts? You'd have to be. I seen you out there. Business ain't exactly boomin', is it?
[ Peter feels heat rising to his face, his fists clenching at his sides. Generally, he's a pretty shameless person, and generally, while he's quick to annoy, he usually has a pretty long fuse. Apparently that goes right out the window when his old team is involved.
And it's even worse that Geff – Geff, of all fucking people – has a point. ]
[ Tension keeps Gamora on edge, and she knows that as soon as they leave, her healing wound is going to make itself known; she can ignore it now, but that won’t last. She isn’t leaning on Peter nearly as much, standing up straight, but maintaining an air of ease.
She stops short with Peter, immediately sizing up the larger men standing at the scraggly man’s sides. She can’t help the way she analyzes them for imminent openings (the one on the left has a small hitch in his shoulder, an easy dislocation; the one on the right is favoring his left knee, an effortless blowout with a well-aimed kick).
The scrawny man looks like he would crumple the second she breaks his nose.
Her eyes flick between Peter and Kraglin, aggravation boiling behind her intense gaze. The posturing is obnoxious, and the longer they stall, the longer Gamora has to stay in this gross club. It’s getting harder to resist the urge to physically shove through them, though she knows that won’t go over well.
Until Geff pipes up.
And now Gamora wants to feed him the broken shards of his stupid glasses.
Gamora steps forward, her fingers briefly brushing over the back of Peter’s hand before she crosses her arms over her chest, leveling Kraglin with that unflappable, intense stare. ]
He’s only here because of me. I need to see Yondu.
[ Gamora's interjection seems to slice through the tension, and while the other men don't completely back off, they're not quite as ready to throw down. Peter glances at her, grateful, though embarrassment still colors his face.
The men at Kraglin's side eye her with undisguised interest, though the taller bald man with a scar along the line of his jaw flashes her a smile that might pass as flirty, if it weren't for the feral edge to it (and the many missing teeth).
Kraglin, at least, seems to maintain an air of professionalism. ]
And who are you supposed to be that Pete, here, is sharin' privileged information about our whereabouts?
"Privileged information"? Seriously? Is that what you call "where you guys hang out every single night"? I mean, come on, a blind five-year-old could find you guys—
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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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(It wouldn’t have been such a shame if that cretin ended his night with a broken wrist, but they don’t need that attention here.)
She shifts her hand in Peter’s, glancing up at him before refocusing on their surroundings as they push forward. ]
I know. Was I supposed to do nothing while he put his hands on you?
[ She... really hated seeing someone threaten Peter – more than she expected. ]
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[ He shifts, waiting for Gamora to stand at his side instead of following in his wake.
After a second, though, he realizes he's being kind of a prick, and he huffs out a breath. ]
... Not that I didn't appreciate it.
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[ These feel like slightly opposite instructions, but she still settles at Peter’s side again. ]
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Act tough. Not break a dude's wrist.
[ Which is to say, Peter didn't expect her to actually listen to him.
They finally start climbing the stairs, though, walking around the folks loitering on the steps. ]
Yondu's usually hanging out up here. Likes having a good vantage point, I guess. We get in, ask him if he can connect you with someone who can forge you some papers, and hopefully I can get out of here with my face intact.
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[ Get in, talk to Yondu, get out unscathed.
Sounds like a solid plan to Gamora. ]
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(It seems like he would absolutely jinx them if he spoke the words aloud.)
The mezzanine isn't exactly impressive, but it does afford a decent view of the entrance and the modest dance floor below. The folks hanging out up here are looking for more privacy, and more than a few couples have found their ways into the various dark corners to make-out or fuck. It stinks of tobacco and weed (and cotton candy, thanks to one shameless vaper) up here.
But they're stopped once again, this time by a man about Peter's age. Scrawny, once again, with silvered teeth and criss-crossing scars over his left temple. On either side of him are two other guys, just as rough-looking, though maybe not quite as sober. ]
Long time, no see, Pete. You're lookin' real fancy.
Kraglin. You're looking extra shitty.
[ Kraglin, at least, seems to have a sense of humor, and the corner of his mouth curls upward. His amusement fades not long after. ]
What the hell're you doin' here?
I'm here to see Yondu.
Good. You finally here to beg the boss for forgiveness?
Pretty sure hell will freeze over, first.
[ Kraglin sighs, annoyed more than anything. ] Then you don't got no business bein' here, do you?
[ The three men straighten, shifting forward like they've spent days rehearsing this, but Peter holds his ground. ]
Just let me through, guys. I've got a proposition for him.
[ Behind Kraglin, a slightly overweight man with coke-bottle glasses laughs. ] You're doin' a whole lotta propositionin' these days, ain't ya, Pete?
Fuck you, Geff—
Why? You offerin' discounts? You'd have to be. I seen you out there. Business ain't exactly boomin', is it?
[ Peter feels heat rising to his face, his fists clenching at his sides. Generally, he's a pretty shameless person, and generally, while he's quick to annoy, he usually has a pretty long fuse. Apparently that goes right out the window when his old team is involved.
And it's even worse that Geff – Geff, of all fucking people – has a point. ]
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She stops short with Peter, immediately sizing up the larger men standing at the scraggly man’s sides. She can’t help the way she analyzes them for imminent openings (the one on the left has a small hitch in his shoulder, an easy dislocation; the one on the right is favoring his left knee, an effortless blowout with a well-aimed kick).
The scrawny man looks like he would crumple the second she breaks his nose.
Her eyes flick between Peter and Kraglin, aggravation boiling behind her intense gaze. The posturing is obnoxious, and the longer they stall, the longer Gamora has to stay in this gross club. It’s getting harder to resist the urge to physically shove through them, though she knows that won’t go over well.
Until Geff pipes up.
And now Gamora wants to feed him the broken shards of his stupid glasses.
Gamora steps forward, her fingers briefly brushing over the back of Peter’s hand before she crosses her arms over her chest, leveling Kraglin with that unflappable, intense stare. ]
He’s only here because of me. I need to see Yondu.
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The men at Kraglin's side eye her with undisguised interest, though the taller bald man with a scar along the line of his jaw flashes her a smile that might pass as flirty, if it weren't for the feral edge to it (and the many missing teeth).
Kraglin, at least, seems to maintain an air of professionalism. ]
And who are you supposed to be that Pete, here, is sharin' privileged information about our whereabouts?
"Privileged information"? Seriously? Is that what you call "where you guys hang out every single night"? I mean, come on, a blind five-year-old could find you guys—
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I'm the person who could ensure Yondu won't need to work for months, if he's willing to do business with me.
[ Money, she's sure, is a language the Ravagers will understand. ]
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