[ This isn't what he's supposed to be doing. It's only a matter of time until someone shows up and tells him they have work to do, drags him out, and when that happens the scene will change; engines will roar overhead, lights will blare over the grassy hilltop, and then they'll have a legitimate training scenario. Something that requires reaction, not explanation.
Until then, it's just a quiet, green slope, slate beneath the night sky. Light pools beneath a few dim streetlamps a few yards off, closer to the building. It spills out from the glass door of the hospital, too, quiet and uninterrupted.
Not for him. There's music streaming through the headphones Peter's wearing, sound vague and tinny to anyone who approaches him where he's seated, sprawled out on the grass. The way he's tapping out a rhythm on his leg makes it look like he's distracted, nonchalant, but the way he watches the hospital door like he's expecting someone to walk out of it says otherwise. ]
B | REALITY
This music is terrible.
[ And super loud, which is why that's more or less shouted into your ear. Peter isn't even looking at whoever he's decided to submit his review to, gaze wandering over the sweaty excuse for a dance party that's writhing over the floors below. The level — balcony, sort of — he's currently standing on is crowded, too, and there are spots of movement that qualify as more dancing; but there's comparative quiet, and some actual sitting down and relaxing. ]
You wanna get some air? [ Well. Air, with air quotes, which he adds on the second go. ] You know, air.
[ Or whatever passes for it on this sorry excuse for a planet. It's an open invitation, apparently, and if you happen to be standing next to him, you qualify. ]
peter quill | mcu
[ This isn't what he's supposed to be doing. It's only a matter of time until someone shows up and tells him they have work to do, drags him out, and when that happens the scene will change; engines will roar overhead, lights will blare over the grassy hilltop, and then they'll have a legitimate training scenario. Something that requires reaction, not explanation.
Until then, it's just a quiet, green slope, slate beneath the night sky. Light pools beneath a few dim streetlamps a few yards off, closer to the building. It spills out from the glass door of the hospital, too, quiet and uninterrupted.
Not for him. There's music streaming through the headphones Peter's wearing, sound vague and tinny to anyone who approaches him where he's seated, sprawled out on the grass. The way he's tapping out a rhythm on his leg makes it look like he's distracted, nonchalant, but the way he watches the hospital door like he's expecting someone to walk out of it says otherwise. ]
B | REALITY
This music is terrible.
[ And super loud, which is why that's more or less shouted into your ear. Peter isn't even looking at whoever he's decided to submit his review to, gaze wandering over the sweaty excuse for a dance party that's writhing over the floors below. The level — balcony, sort of — he's currently standing on is crowded, too, and there are spots of movement that qualify as more dancing; but there's comparative quiet, and some actual sitting down and relaxing. ]
You wanna get some air? [ Well. Air, with air quotes, which he adds on the second go. ] You know, air.
[ Or whatever passes for it on this sorry excuse for a planet. It's an open invitation, apparently, and if you happen to be standing next to him, you qualify. ]