[ You know, part of him was gearing up for a fight. He was ready for it. He was hoping for it. Just to have an outlet for the weird, agitated thing coiling low in his gut, ugly and bitter and corrosive. Life with the Guardians means that whenever Peter felt like picking fights, he was spoiled for choice. None of them liked being the target for misdirected anger, so they were often happy to respond in kind.
But then she responds so fucking levelly, and he regrets the way the fight goes out of his on his next exhale.
He sags, then, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the surface in front of him. He scrubs his face. ]
Yeah. Sure. Easy.
[ He forces the words out, casting them with more humor, even if his heart isn't entirely in it.
A deep breath in. A slow breath out. His voice is still muffled by his palms when he speaks again. ]
I shouldn't have yelled at you.
[ Which as close to an "I'm sorry" as he's likely to get, right now. ]
no subject
But then she responds so fucking levelly, and he regrets the way the fight goes out of his on his next exhale.
He sags, then, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the surface in front of him. He scrubs his face. ]
Yeah. Sure. Easy.
[ He forces the words out, casting them with more humor, even if his heart isn't entirely in it.
A deep breath in. A slow breath out. His voice is still muffled by his palms when he speaks again. ]
I shouldn't have yelled at you.
[ Which as close to an "I'm sorry" as he's likely to get, right now. ]