[ Peter Quill is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a traditional man.
He was raised by a single mother; he was kidnapped by alien pirates; he was raised by alien pirates; and he was more or less left to his own devices as long as he didn't inadvertently set anything on fire. His independent streak was only cemented when, after a job well done at the age of seventeen, Peter was rewarded with his own ship -- an M-Class and a hand-me-down -- and was allowed to take solo jobs.
Every once in a while he used to think, wouldn't it be nice? Wouldn't it be nice to have something normal, something consistent in his life? Wouldn't it be nice to have more than just a bed and a fridge full of beer and an empty ship to come back to? And for a while bringing back someone to share the night with was enough to satisfy that weird ache, but soon enough that became the wrong sort of routine, too.
But then there was his team. And then there was Maya.
Opening himself to the idea of a steady relationship had been worrying, at first. He never thought it would be something he could do, thought it'd be something he'd screw up immediately, nevermind the whole mess of attachment and weakness and vulnerability. It was like wandering into a dark room and hoping you didn't step on a Lego. It took a whole lot of time and a shitton of effort, he managed to do it.
But love? That was sending yourself out into the vacuum of space without a suit. It was dumb and reckless and terrifying. He had ventured out into space with only the clothes on his back to protect him once before, and for a few harrowing seconds he wasn't sure he would survive. He never wanted to do it again. But with Maya, he thinks if he had to do it to stay with her, if he had to do it as an act of faith or of loyalty or even if she asked him to just for fun, he would leap out of the Milano a million times over.
Obviously he hopes that won't be necessary. He's done a lot of terrifying, idiotic things in his life, and jumping out unprotected into the freezing void is way up there.
What he's about to do, he thinks, has all that other shit beat. Hands-down. No contest. He tells himself, Hey, past-Peter, you think carrying the containment unit for the Infinity Stone was scary, after experiencing its power firsthand? Try carrying a goddamn ring in your pocket. See how you feel then.
There are only two people who know what he's about to ask. The first is Lilith, who was puzzled as hell when he called, but was less puzzled when he explained the Terran tradition of asking for permission. She had said something along the lines of it's about fucking time and Krieg is gonna be so pissed.
The second was Drax, who had noticed Peter's growing anxiety over the course of several days and saw it for what it was. "I have experienced this agitation, my friend," Drax had said. "When I proposed the idea of marriage to Hovat, I, too, experienced uncertainty to the point of destruction."
(... I think you mean you were a nervous wreck, big guy.
"Yes. That is what I said.")
It's evening on Xandar, the night air crisp and cool, and the Guardians had been shepherded off by Drax, much to Peter's eternal gratitude. It's only when he and Maya reach the restaurant that Peter realizes that Xandar had been a mistake, even if it had been the location of their first date. Dinner had been a chore, with people dropping by to say hello or thanking him and his team for their service in stopping Ronan the Accuser. Any other time he would be preening from the attention or he'd be laughing as Maya tried desperately to keep his ego in check. Right then? Seriously inconvenient.
Even worse, all these interruptions have totally thrown him off his game, and he knows it's making him act weird. If it weren't for all these people, he totally would've been smooth and suave like Double-Oh-Seven. Instead, he's babbling and quiet by turns, and getting worse with each I'm sorry to bother you, buts.
He has his face covered by his hand, right about now, feigning as though he's rubbing his temple to ward off a headache. This is the worst fucking thing, he thinks to himself. This is worse than trying to hide out from fifteen jilted one-night stands, because these people totally mean well and probably don't want to stab him with kitchen utensils. ]
You mind if we skip dessert? Or, like, go somewhere else, at least? This is seriously getting old.
please baby go all the way
He was raised by a single mother; he was kidnapped by alien pirates; he was raised by alien pirates; and he was more or less left to his own devices as long as he didn't inadvertently set anything on fire. His independent streak was only cemented when, after a job well done at the age of seventeen, Peter was rewarded with his own ship -- an M-Class and a hand-me-down -- and was allowed to take solo jobs.
Every once in a while he used to think, wouldn't it be nice? Wouldn't it be nice to have something normal, something consistent in his life? Wouldn't it be nice to have more than just a bed and a fridge full of beer and an empty ship to come back to? And for a while bringing back someone to share the night with was enough to satisfy that weird ache, but soon enough that became the wrong sort of routine, too.
But then there was his team. And then there was Maya.
Opening himself to the idea of a steady relationship had been worrying, at first. He never thought it would be something he could do, thought it'd be something he'd screw up immediately, nevermind the whole mess of attachment and weakness and vulnerability. It was like wandering into a dark room and hoping you didn't step on a Lego. It took a whole lot of time and a shitton of effort, he managed to do it.
But love? That was sending yourself out into the vacuum of space without a suit. It was dumb and reckless and terrifying. He had ventured out into space with only the clothes on his back to protect him once before, and for a few harrowing seconds he wasn't sure he would survive. He never wanted to do it again. But with Maya, he thinks if he had to do it to stay with her, if he had to do it as an act of faith or of loyalty or even if she asked him to just for fun, he would leap out of the Milano a million times over.
Obviously he hopes that won't be necessary. He's done a lot of terrifying, idiotic things in his life, and jumping out unprotected into the freezing void is way up there.
What he's about to do, he thinks, has all that other shit beat. Hands-down. No contest. He tells himself, Hey, past-Peter, you think carrying the containment unit for the Infinity Stone was scary, after experiencing its power firsthand? Try carrying a goddamn ring in your pocket. See how you feel then.
There are only two people who know what he's about to ask. The first is Lilith, who was puzzled as hell when he called, but was less puzzled when he explained the Terran tradition of asking for permission. She had said something along the lines of it's about fucking time and Krieg is gonna be so pissed.
The second was Drax, who had noticed Peter's growing anxiety over the course of several days and saw it for what it was. "I have experienced this agitation, my friend," Drax had said. "When I proposed the idea of marriage to Hovat, I, too, experienced uncertainty to the point of destruction."
(... I think you mean you were a nervous wreck, big guy.
"Yes. That is what I said.")
It's evening on Xandar, the night air crisp and cool, and the Guardians had been shepherded off by Drax, much to Peter's eternal gratitude. It's only when he and Maya reach the restaurant that Peter realizes that Xandar had been a mistake, even if it had been the location of their first date. Dinner had been a chore, with people dropping by to say hello or thanking him and his team for their service in stopping Ronan the Accuser. Any other time he would be preening from the attention or he'd be laughing as Maya tried desperately to keep his ego in check. Right then? Seriously inconvenient.
Even worse, all these interruptions have totally thrown him off his game, and he knows it's making him act weird. If it weren't for all these people, he totally would've been smooth and suave like Double-Oh-Seven. Instead, he's babbling and quiet by turns, and getting worse with each I'm sorry to bother you, buts.
He has his face covered by his hand, right about now, feigning as though he's rubbing his temple to ward off a headache. This is the worst fucking thing, he thinks to himself. This is worse than trying to hide out from fifteen jilted one-night stands, because these people totally mean well and probably don't want to stab him with kitchen utensils. ]
You mind if we skip dessert? Or, like, go somewhere else, at least? This is seriously getting old.