a thesis on the absence of himself
The streets on Planet XX2789 bustle with energy. Street vendors shout and boast. Children giggle and screech. Adults argue and chatter. There’s dust flying this way and that from foot traffic, emerging in the air like an irritable cloud.
Peter keeps his eyes on Gamora, who is shoving her way through the crowds. No one dares to say a word against her with Godslayer fastened to her belt. Behind him is Drax, and Rocket is taking up the rear, holding Groot.
They make for an odd group, but Peter was in an odd group with the Ravagers too.
Eventually, right past a vibrant clothing stand, they arrive at a hut-looking entrance that leads into a walled structure. Immediately, Peter clocks the two guards by the door, and by the shift in air behind him, Drax does too. Rocket huffs under his breath and comes to stand beside Peter.
Before Peter can ask Gamora how she knew about this place, a lilac-skinned man appears.
“Ah, my friends! What can I do for you?”
“We need blasters. Low-grade, 998s,” Gamora answers, fingers twitching imperceptibly at her side.
“But of course,” the man smiles, “Follow me.”
The arms dealer leads them to a table in the back, their desired blasters strewn about it. Cases of ammo sit off to the side.
“Five-hundred for three.”
“A motherfuckin’ joke,” Rocket snorts, hands thrown in the air.
Gamora glares down her nose disdainfully. “Three-hundred, or we walk.”
The man shrugs, crossing his arms. “Walk then. It’s five-hundred.”
Peter steps forward, ready to propose three-hundred units and a night of fun when Gamora mutters, “Peter, stand behind me.”
And then Godslayer comes down with vicious precision and cleaves the table in two. Peter stumbles back in surprise, bumping into Drax, who laughs boisterously.
“Three-hundred.” Gamora declares.
When Peter looks at the lilac-skinned man, he is trembling, wide eyes on the blasters scattered about the floor. Miraculously, Gamora didn’t harm a single one.
Guards swarm the area, and Drax draws his blades. With a roar, he launches himself at their opposers.
“Wait!” The arms dealer screeches in panic. “Three-hundred! Three-hundred is fine!”
Drax stills, arms lowering to his sides. “That was easy.”
“Atta girl, ‘Mora,” Rocket praises, collecting the blasters and ammo.
Peter saunters forward with his holopad and wires the man his units. Three-hundred and not a credit more.
Yondu used brunt force all the time to get what he wanted, but when it came to people that he might need favors from, Yondu used Peter’s persuasions instead. Peter isn’t totally shocked, but he’s mildly taken aback by Gamora’s quick result to violence. Seems more like Drax’s thing.
But they leave the shop with the blasters that they came to get, and no one follows them out into the street. Groot shimmies and dances in his pot.
They loiter about the vendors once they’ve put some distance between them and the arms dealer’s shop. Peter convinces Gamora to buy a purple jacket that complements her skin tone, and Drax buys something to eat on a stick.
Peter himself purchases a few new shirts and a couple of pairs of socks, seeing as his keep going missing. Or being ruined by a ridiculously large Kylosoian.
When they finally make it back to the Milano , Rocket disappears to modify and stow away their new blasters. Peter somewhat trusts him not to blow anything up. He makes his way to the cockpit, settling into the pilot’s chair and preparing to leave planetside. Gamora pops into the co-pilot’s chair with a bag of zarg nuts.
Drax laughs behind them, and Peter cranes his head to see the other pointing at Groot, who is shimmying along to the music playing through the Milano's speakers.
“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Peter announces, mostly just to say something.
Gamora looks at him and holds out the bag of zarg nuts.
“No, I’m good.” Peter shakes his head.
“Suit yourself,” Gamora shrugs.
The bar they’re in is warm. It has the right amount of dim lights and LED signs to be vibey. Peter has had two cocktails and is thinking about a third when the door blows open.
Of course, because the universe hates Peter, Yondu and a scraggle of Ravagers meander in. Immediately, Yondu spots Peter and grins a toothy grin.
“Aye, boyo,” Yondu greets when he strolls over to the guardians’ table. “This what you folks get up to with that money you stole from me?”
Peter rolls his eyes so hard that he’s surprised they didn’t get lost in his skull.
“Who the hell invited this asshole?” Rocket snarks, leaning back into the booth.
“Stupid rat,” Yondu spits in his direction.
Rocket makes a face at him but says nothing else, opting to pour some water into Groot’s soil.
“What do you want, Yondu?” Peter questions.
“Aw sha. That’s no friendly greeting. We’s just came fer a drink. ‘Sides, tha boys have missed ya.”
“Yeah, pretty boy,” chortles Olag, “We’s miss ya.”
“Hey, Pete,” Kraglin offers with a wave.
“Krags,” Peter smiles back.
“What do you say, boyo? Buy a drink fer yer old man?” Yondu interrupts, smirking.
“Yeah, yeah,” Peter sighs, standing up.
Gamora catches his wrist, and Rocket murmurs a quiet “Can you believe this guy?”
“Be careful,” Gamora commands, fingers locked around his wrist and digging into the bones.
“Don’t worry, Gamora,” Peter soothed.
“Yeah, girl. Don’t worry,” Yondu added from behind Peter. “I’ll have your boy back in no time.”
Later, in the Milano, Drax asks why Olag called Peter “pretty boy,” and Peter is forced to explain that the Ravagers nicknamed him that when he started getting a different kind of attention at a young age.
Drax nods and says, “Your small waist is feminine like.”
Rocket slaps the table, where he had been sitting quietly, and guffaws. He even goes as far as to wipe tears from his eyes. Stupid raccoon.
Peter gapes, but Drax walks away before he can defend himself. He curses Drax’s name and wanders to his bedroom, hoping to forget that entire interaction.
Stupid Drax. Men can be pretty too.