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[ closed ] there’s a room where the light won’t find you

who: ~~Star-Lord~~ Peter Quill and Gamora
what: when training goes wrong OR yer a wizard, Peter
when: early January
where: Perimeter Guard training facility
warnings: none yet!

[ It’s not that Peter isn’t a good fighter, really.

Because he is. He’s scrappy, and he’s tenacious, and he’s not afraid to fight dirty when he has to. The Ravagers taught him well, in that regard, if it could even be called teaching – how to time his shots, when to go for the nuts, shit like that. It’s worked well for him, for a long while. It’s how he’s gotten by for twenty-some-odd years out in the black, working on instinct and reflex and, when those failed him, a healthy application of gunfire and low blows. For the line of work he usually performed, it was fine.

Now, though, he’s saving galaxies and going up against zealots who might as well be as immovable as mountains. Now he’s going up against psychos who were practically immortal, who could manipulate the world around them to meet their whims. And one of these days, they’re going to go up against a megalomaniac with armies at his command, with warriors and assassins and about a zillion instruments of death at his fingertips.

So... you know. Jabbing out someone’s eyes probably isn’t going to get Peter very far, in the grand scheme of things.

If he’s honest, he’s not entirely sure what training up will do for him. It’ll make him faster, sure. Stronger, too, probably. But if he gets caught-out alone with one of Thanos’ generals? One of his other so-called children? Or, hell, the Mad Titan himself?

Being able to throw a slightly better punch isn’t going to help him much, is it?

But it was important to Gamora, for some reason, and the look of disappointment she had shot his way when he had initially refused had been like a stab in the gut. So here they are now: a former assassin and a former thief, training for a battle that may or may not happen, in the Perimeter Guard’s training facility. For once, they have the area to themselves – which is a goddamn blessing, because Gamora is basically beating the shit out of him. But, like, in a playful way. The sort of controlled, measured attacks of a cat toying with a mouse.

If he wasn’t so completely sure that Gamora was on his side, this time, he’d be flashing back to that sunny day on Xandar and running for the blasters he had left on a nearby bench.

And as it has almost every time before, it ends with Peter cursing as he hits the floor. ]

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[ Peter should have seen this coming, but – surprise, surprise – he doesn’t.

Which means when Gamora grasps his shirt, his first instinct is to grab hold of her wrist – not to move out of the way. He yelps in alarm as he’s flipped, and when he lands on his back again, the breath rushes out of him.

Hi again, ceiling. How have things been for you since you and Peter last saw one another? ]

[ Now it's Gamora's turn to land on his hips, her hand still gripping his shirt as she looks down at him. ]

Are you ready to do this properly or should I keep throwing you for the rest of the day?

[ Not that she has too many complaints about that, but she's sure Peter won't get much out of it. ]

[ His lips part to respond, and the words, Isn’t that what you usually do anyway? stand on the tip of his tongue.

At the very least, most of their training sessions end with Gamora getting the upper hand, so her throwing him around for the rest of the session isn’t too far from the norm, all things considered.

But that’s not the answer she’s looking for, he knows, and he huffs out a breath, nodding. ]

Yeah, yeah. I’ll behave.

[ Something relaxes in Gamora's expression, and though it's much more subtle than approval, she looks pleased.

No praise, but she does push herself up off of him, getting to her feet and dusting off her leggings.

And again, she offers him a hand. ]

[ Okay, cool. That seems to have done the trick, he thinks, and a bit of tension leaves him when that look of disapproval fades away.

He takes her hand, hauling himself up to his feet again. He brushes himself off, and gives one more pointed roll of his shoulder, as if to remind her that that had hurt.

It’s not the worst he’s had, though. When he was younger, the Ravagers would beat the shit out of him, would punch and kick and shove him until he was bruised and bleeding. His younger days were filled with frequent visits to the ship’s medic, and even those visits generally consisted of a Ravager slapping a bandage on him and telling him to suck it up and walk it off.

These sparring sessions, by comparison, were practically a cakewalk, even if Gamora did soundly beat his ass every single time. ]

Are we going again?

[ She looks him up and down, appraising, and then seems to decide that he doesn't look any worse for wear – sore shoulder or not. ]

You should be able to handle it.

[ Should as in she expects him to. She likes to think that she's fought with Peter enough, worked at his side and watch him to determine his stamina and what his body is capable of. Sometimes, she'll cut him slack, not push him as far as he can go, because she doesn't want to wear him out, but she also doesn't want to let him skirt by. "Good enough" isn't the same as "good." ]

I want you to come at me instead, this time.

[ She steps away from Peter, creating that separation, but instead of taking up her own stance, she just waits.

... She's obviously ready to respond whenever. ]

[ He nearly rolls his eyes at her, nearly comments on what glowing praise that was, but—

That might actually get his eyes gouged out, considering he had just given his word that he’d take this more seriously. With a surprising amount of restraint, he swallows down the comment.

At her direction, he looks at her a little skeptically, sees the way she just... stands there, and it almost feels a little insulting that she doesn’t visibly prepare herself. Like, that’s rude, right? That’s, like, bad sportsmanship, isn’t it? Gamora should at least pretend that Peter is a threat, shouldn’t she?

But he shakes his head, slipping into his usual stance. He circles her a little to find his opening – which is difficult, considering she’s... not really... doing anything; he might as well be trying to attack a statue for how little she seems to react.

So eventually, he just says to himself, Fuck it, and after a moment of thought, he launches himself, closing the space between them. ]

[ It's a tactic to throw Peter off, of course. If she doesn't treat him like a threat, she expects that to inspire himself to prove that he is, that he can be.

... If she thought him totally incapable, she wouldn't taunt him. That would be actually rude.

A twitch of her lips – a flicker of response that's almost "good" – when he throws himself into the spar. He's gotten faster since they first started, she mentally acknowledges, and it's not as easy for her to duck and dodge with barely a thought. She darts back, letting him push her across the mat, though she stays out of reach.

She intends to dance away from him for a while, to keep him moving, advancing, so that she can get a better idea of where he leaves himself open or how he favors his offense. She's used to putting him on the defensive after a certain point, rather than giving him the opportunity to keep coming at her.

However, having a seamless offense, knowing how to make the pauses in-between unworkable for an opponent, can mean the difference between keeping an advantage and losing it with the wrong opening. ]

[ Well, this is frustrating.

Peter’s always favored using his fists, if he was forced into close quarters combat. Quick jabs and low punches meant he could dance out of reach that much faster, could stay quick on his feet and dance away when the inevitable retaliation came. But Gamora keeps just out of his reach, and a few times he swears he felt the quick lick of her curls against his knuckles, the rasp of her shirt against his hand. He tells himself to keep his cool, to not let it get to him, but—

Look, it’s super annoying to go from being the big fish in a little pond to the tiny fish in the big wide ocean – and that’s basically what the transition from lowly Ravager to illustrious Guardian of the Galaxy has been for him. He knows he’s good, but hanging out with his team has proven to him, time and again, that he’s still the low man on the totem pole, all things considered.

He swings out another punch – a little more force than necessary, which means he leaves his side exposed a little longer than usual.

It’s... more than annoying. More than frustrating.

It’s almost infuriating, and it prickles up his spine. ]

[ Of course, Gamora sees the moment as soon as it happens.

She sees his side left wide open and exposed, and though she's been dancing out of his reach, this time she lashes out. Her long leg swings around, fast and blunt, to slam her shin into his ribs.

It's a quick tag, and though she lashes out forcefully, she doesn't intend to do more than to leave him winded. She wants him to see the consequences of his actions, of every attack, so that he doesn't let himself get so carried away again.

—because she not only saw the opening itself, but the unnecessary force behind it that caused the opening. This is exactly what she's trying to teach him – unrelenting restraint. ]

Edited (wordchoice ok) 2018-01-10 22:15 (UTC)

[ He sucks in a startled breath, stumbling with the blow but trying to dance back with it. It wasn’t enough to drive him to the ground, or enough to break his concentration entirely, but enough that that same annoyance twists his stomach, sharp and bitter, makes him huff out a sharp breath as he recomposes himself.

Gamora’s better than him at this. He knows that. He’s experienced it. But sometimes, these training sessions feel like Gamora is dangling a carrot in front of him. He gets so close to winning, sometimes – or at least, he thinks he does – and then she jerks and the prize is shifted that much further away. It should feel like progress, but sometimes, it just makes this improving thing feel impossible.

Which apparently is how he’s feeling right now. Peter should learn his lesson, to stay calm, to keep his cool, but— that restlessness claws up his spine again, that tingling sensation flows through him. There’s nothing to show for it, though, as he swings out another wide punch – a haymaker, more akin to the cowboy movies of John Wayne than the easy jabs of Muhammad Ali. ]

[ This should be the point that Gamora calls off the round. She can see him getting heated, angry, and the way he swings for her is more uncontrolled than before. It's even easier for her to avoid, all that time in the world with the arc of his arm, and rather than putting space between them again, she ducks, takes the next opening.

Another kick – just as fast, the same level of force. It's a reminder more than it is an attempt to hurt him; he fought the wrong way, he earns the same response.

The kick says "try again."

The kick says "do better."

She wants him to know that if he keeps giving her these advantages, she's going to take them – just like a real opponent would. Instead of trying to incapacitate him, it's an exercise to show him where he's failing, where he needs to watch himself, without overwhelming him physically. ]

[ Right, right.

Little pieces of encouragement wrapped in little bundles of tough love, and normally Peter would see it for what it was, would recenter himself and try again, but—

That prickling energy burns in his gut, raises his hackles, blinds him for a quick second. It lances through him, a bolt of lightning, and when he recovers from the kick, this time, he doesn’t waste time to fall back into his defensive stance. Instead, he lashes out, makes himself some space, and when Gamora inevitably backs up, so does Peter. Only instead of maintaining his distance, as habit would have him do, he closes the space at a run, kicking off with his back foot to jump into the air, reeling back his fist.

That energy surges through him, then, driven by his frustration and his anger. He centers on that feeling despite a small voice telling him to calm the fuck down, what the fuck is even with you—

And Gamora will surely avoid the attack, inelegant as it is, which is just as well. Because when he throws a downward cross with a frustrated shout, his hand is wreathed in flickering, blue light. He lands on a knee, and he drives his fist through the practice mat, blue fire licking up his arm. ]

[ This is different – and not necessarily in a good way.

There's some flare of fury that she doesn't recognize, doesn't usually see when they spar, but before she has time to puzzle it out, Peter is leaping at her, swinging fiercely and with wild force. He never fights like this, never when they're going against one another, so why—

She moves completely out of the way, skirting off to the side and not bothering to try to block or counter where she might have before – to call off the spar, to end the round.

... Apparently, it's a good thing she moved, because as she evades the attack, his hand comes down with bright, flickering light, and—

She knows exactly where she last saw light like that.

Gamora skids to a halt, freezing in place as she stares, wide-eyed at Peter and the blue flame surrounding his fist. ]

—Peter?

[ He comes back to himself with that strange quality to her voice. He looks up at her, almost startled, then down at his hand, where his fist is still embedded in the mat. When he sees that blue fire, he—

Freezes.

The light gutters out the instant he notices it, though, concentration gone, and he falls back onto his ass, scrambling clumsily away. He grips the wrist of his right hand, which he keeps pressed against his chest, and he swallows thickly.

Later, it might be funny to notice what a marked difference his reaction has been. The day on Ego's planet, after speaking with his father, after finding some common ground, he had run to find Gamora and shouted at her, "I have fucking super powers!" He had shown off a bit, even if he couldn't do much more than summon that light, but he had been giddy using it, knowing he had it in him.

Now, though, he looks sick, ashen and terrified, caught somewhere between puking or a panic attack. ]

What the fuck.

[ He whispers it out distantly; it's all he can manage after a few long, drawn out seconds of silence.

Then, with increasing feeling, ]

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

[ It quickly becomes clear that the light was neither intentional nor welcome.

(And it shouldn't be, after all they know about Ego now, after what he did and what he wanted to do.)

But Peter is freaking out, and somehow, that grounds Gamora from her own immediate reaction of "What is that?" The light disappears, and the look on his face wrenches something in Gamora's chest; she doesn't keep her distance, doesn't watch him warily, and instead, steps forward, closing the space between them to kneel on the mats. ]

Peter.

[ Without the shocked, startled tone of before. ]

Look at me.

[ He does look at her, though he's, like, definitely on the verge of freaking the fuck out, because what the fuck, what the fuck— ]

That wasn't me.

[ Uh, no, actually. That was totally you, Peter, and he realizes how stupid that sounds. He amends, ]

I mean— I didn't do that.

[ ... okay, try it again.

He grunts out in frustration, his right hand twisting into his shirt while the other tangles in his hair.

Shouted this time: ]

What the fuck?

[ it seems the easiest thing to say. ]

[ This is bad. This hit "not good" probably five minutes ago, and now they've wandered into "bad."

She reaches out to set a soothing hand on his shoulder, then jerks her chin towards the door. ]

We need to go.

[ Somewhere else, somewhere less public – somewhere that hole in the mats won't be staring Peter in the face. They may have the training facility to themselves for now, but that can change at a moment's notice. ]

[ It’s probably a good idea that they leave, considering Peter is still staring, feels his throat tightening and his breath picking up. Her gentle touch startles him out of it, but it’s still a few seconds more before he manages a jerky nod.

(Later, he’ll wonder if he should... pay for the damage...

He should probably tell someone that was his fault, right? Like, shouldn’t they take it out of his paycheck or something?)

He keeps his hands to himself as he lurches to his feet, both of them twisted in his shirt, but now that he’s up, he’s not sure where to go from there. ]

[ Gamora is half-worried Peter won't be able to pick himself up immediately, but he rises without further prompting, and she winds an arm around his waist – reassuring, grounding, and also guiding him towards the door. ]

We will return to the apartment, and figure this out from there.

[ At least they can be with familiar surroundings then, without any potentially prying eyes or questions from other members of the Guard who might happen to spot them nearby.

(Because anyone with a semblance of sense can tell that Peter isn't okay, and she'd like to avoid attention at all costs.) ]

[ Okay. That’s.

Definitely a better plan than Peter has, which is “wait for the ground to swallow him up and for the day to be over because what the fuck.”

He gathers up his belongings with shaking hands, left haphazardly on a nearby bench – a small satchel with a set of tools and both of his music players, his jacket and scarf, and his guns. Once he has everything he feels— not better, exactly, but slightly more put together. A little more like himself.

The trek back to the apartment is made in tense, awkward silence, with trying desperately to keep his hands to himself, shoved into his pockets or tucked against his sides with his arms folded over his chest. A dumb, irrational thing, considering the light seems to be gone, at least for now, yet here he is.

They apparently can’t get to the apartment soon enough, because once they’re properly there, Peter hurries inside, relieved to be somewhere safe and familiar. He tosses most of his shit aside again, bag and jacket and scarf leaving something of a trail as he collapses on the couch in the living room. ]

[ Gamora is mostly just relieved to get them back home (as much as the apartment will ever be home), and once there, she makes sure the door is closed and locked before trailing after Peter. She watches him carefully, not quite apprehensive – and not because of the light – but studying him as she tries to understand what just happened.

She comes around the couch, settling somewhat more gracefully beside him, her knee lightly resting against his. ]

What was that?

[ Her tone isn't accusatory; she doesn't want Peter feeling like it's his fault or something he did wrong. ]

[ Okay, Quill, he tells himself, scrubbing his face with his hands. Okay, Quill. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t— ]

How the hell should I know?!

[ —ah, okay. Looks like it’s yes, freak out, actually.

Peter clearly regrets the tone as soon as he snaps the answer back, though, and he winces. ]

Sorry. [ And he sounds sincere, at least, unlike his usual perfunctory apologies. The last thing he needs right now is to alienate the only person who would kind of understand why he’s freaking the fuck out. ] Sorry, I didn’t mean to—

[ His expression crumples around the edges, twisting as he nervously licks his lips. He tries to force himself to calm down, but it’s only marginally successful. Still, he manages a slightly more sedate response this time: ]

I don’t know. I haven’t— I have done that since...

[ And he swallows down the words. (They still haven’t really talked about any of that shit, have they? Vague mentions, here and there, but well over half a year later, and Peter still can’t bring himself to give voice to all the shit Ego told him, all the shit Ego did to him, all the shit Ego had done to ruin the lives of anyone who had the misfortune of meeting him.)

His hand twitches in a vague, truncated sort of gesture. ]

Since. You know.

[ Fortunately for Peter, the outburst doesn't take Gamora by surprise. She doesn't reel back or break contact, but keeps that her expression leveled out, unmoved. ]

That's what I assumed.

[ If Peter had, she feels like she would have seen it before now, or that he might have mentioned it. He obviously wouldn't be responding like this if it wasn't sudden and unexpected.

She hasn't pried, though; she hasn't been insistent or belligerent, because she's wanted Peter to have the chance to breathe and process on his own time. If he wanted to discuss it, she assumes he would share or that it would have come up, but she knows how sensitive it is. ]

Is that... how it was before?

Not— really.

[ Though he says it uncertainly. The first time Ego had coached him through summoning the light, it had felt more like an accident than anything. Like he had been stepping over a crack in the sidewalk all his life, and finally just stumbled on it. Then after that— yeah. He’d been enraged. Hurt and betrayed and reeling, terrified and desperate and racked with pain, and—

He cringes away from the memory near instantly.

But those times, he had purposefully tapped into it, had drawn it up like water from a well. This time was purely by accident, like he had tripped into a switch and suddenly it was just— there.

And he hated to admit it, but back on Ego’s planet, using the light had felt— right. It felt good, like a hot shower after being out in the cold, like flopping into bed after a long day. This, though, had felt like... nothing. And if anything, it had left him feeling weirdly strung out.

But maybe that’s because he’s on the verge of losing his shit over it.

Peter scrubs his face again, taking a shuddering breath.

Then, with feeling, ]

Fuck.

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[ closed ] there’s a room where the light won’t find you

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