EPISODE  T H R E E:
the milano.

THERE ARE THREE SPECIFIC WORDS I'D USE TO DESCRIBE "PETER QUILL", a name I'm still not convinced is really his own.

Arrogant. 

Annoying. 

And a complete, total, absolute asshole.

Unfortunately, however, I can't really call him a bad pilot. Because while his personality made me want to jump out of his ship that stank of smells I didn't want to imagine the source of, he did know how to fly. We were out of Vargo in no time and I was left in awe as my unwilling pilot expertly steered a ship barely holding itself together.

Well. Until we fecking crashed.

Crash, present tense, because while I write this inner monologue, we're swerving through a field of floating rock and he's shouting and I'm shouting and we're both just screaming at each other, not solving the problem but coping with the fact that we might die in the middle of deadspace with the worst possible person as a partner in the act.

"Your nav's broken, stupid!"

"I thought you said you could fix it?!"

"Yeah," I yell back, clinging tight to the wall. I try not to think about my impending doom via the meteor field we steered into. "Not that I did?! And you would know that if you listened to—"

"—I swear to Jesus, if you tell me one more time that I gotta listen to your shit, I will—"

"—you'll what? Kill me?! Newsflash, dickwad, we're already both headin' that way!"

"And that's on you for not doing your job properly!"

"No, if we're about to die, it's because you're a little cry-jelly too wussy to fly a damn ship well!"

"You — you take that back, y'asshole!"

I hold tighter to the wall as we careen to the right, and wonder what I did to deserve my fate. 

"I can fly this damn ship," Peter roars, when I don't offer anything in response. "I just don't know where the hell I'm goin' and this engine's got maybe ten minutes, tops! So, all-knowing goddamn genius, a little help would be nice!"

I huff. "I told you, head for Ciilia!" What's he need, step-by-step directions? It's a moon. Pretty easy to see in the middle of absolutely nothing else.

"I — not the point I'm making here!"

"You're not makin' any points, you're just whining to me about—" another crash sends me to the floor, smacking my head clean against it. A dull roar cascades in between my ears like an ocean of brain-juice just broke loose. And it's not a classy comparison, but with the pain blooming, it's all I've got.

"FECK!"

"Okay, HOLD ON!"

I swear again and clamber blindly for something to grab. My head is pounding and my eyes are dripping tears from the shock, so my vision's gone down to a complete fog. I swing blindly as the ship careens through Krite-knows-what and when my arm hits something solid, I immediately cling to it.

"IF YOU KILL ME," I roar over the screams of a malfunctioning ship and the idiot I've gotten myself stuck with, "I WILL KILL YOU TEN TIMES OVER, STARSHIT!"

"YEAH, RIGHT BACK AT YOU!"

And then we died.

AT LEAST, IT FELT LIKE WE HAD.

I hadn't had my eyes open when we crashed, so it was all darkness as suddenly, the M-Ship met ground. And all I had felt was my body fly through the air and then land, hard, on the opposite end of the ship. My ears rang and everything was flashing colours into midnight, my eyes pressed shut as tight as I could, my body vibrating from stress and adrenaline and painpainpain, waiting for the end to come envelope me in relief.

But as I waited for the sweet embrace of death, nothing happened.

I open my eyes to meet the roof of the ship and not whatever afterlife waited on the other side. If this is my end, it's a pretty shit one. And maybe I deserve that, but something tells me I hadn't gotten lucky and found a way out.

Groaning, I force myself up into a sitting position and looked around. The ship is in more or less one piece, still, though there's a harsh beeping echoing through the hull, red lights flashing angrily, and anything that wasn't the outer shell of the ship is now scattered around everywhere. It looks like a disaster film, the ones I used to sneak out and watch as a teen, except this is unfortunately real.

And my companion is nowhere to be seen. The pilot's seat is empty, and as far as I can see, the cockpit is too. I frown and scan the area, but there is no 'Starlord' to be seen. Had — had my companion really just bit the dust? Just like that? Dissipated into thin air? Blown to bits in the crash landing?

That sounds too good to be true.

"Hello?" I call into the darkness, feeling stupid even as I do it. My muscles ache as I pull myself forward a little, trying to get a better view. "Uh — anyone?"

No answer.

Holy crap, I think, I'm all alone now.

What do you do after this? What am I supposed to do? I can't fly a ship. I can fix one, if I have all my things and if this ship is still functioning enough to be fixed, but what after? Vargo is shit but I'd much prefer that hellhole then being stuck on a deserted moon with no one but myself. Starlord might have been an egotistical loser but at least he was something more than just me. And he can fly a ship.

I'm going to die here.

I'm only twenty-five and I am going to die.

Shit, shit, shitshitshitshitSHIT —

But as I spiral, and try desperately to think of a survival plan, a head of dark, messy curls pops out, followed by a cheeky smile and an even cheekier, "we lived, bitch!"

And suddenly, all my fear sours into deep, bitter annoyance.

"Phew, that was a bumpy ride!" he crows, swiping down his dust-smattered face and hair. "But hey, we made it, so no harm, no foul, we're doin' alright!"

My head feels like it's being split in two by a tiny carpenter with an even tinier but extremely painful saw, my limbs feel bruised to smithereens, and my only way off this rock is an idiot with a confidence he hasn't earned and his falling apart ship.

That I'm supposed to fix. With no parts. And probably a worsening concussion. 

Maybe I would'a been better off alone.

"So, what's the next move here, partner?"

I squint at the man a whiles away from me, contemplating my chances if I just take him out now. Sure, I'd be out a pilot — but flying a ship sounds a lot easier than putting up with 'Peter Quill'. Or whatever his real name is.

I grunt, staggering to my feet. He watches amusedly. He makes no effort to help, which is fine, because I wouldn't want to touch him with a thirty-foot-Ziegert.

"Now, I fix your ship, Stardick."

Shouldn't be too hard.

I SPOKE TOO SOON. THIS IS HARD. REALLY, REALLY HARD.

I'm good at what I do. That's not ego talking, it's fact. Machines are what I live and breathe and I could probably put together a U-Trawler in my sleep, with my hands tied behind my back and a Spacehog sitting on my chest. I know that I am one of the best mechs in the entire damn universe — so one would think, fixing a fully customized M-ship with almost zero working parts left, and zero replacements on hand, on a desolate rock with just the galaxy's most annoying prick in the world as help, would be nothing.

Unfortunately, it's not nothing.

I glare at the broken valve seal in my hand, just one of many issues with this blasted engine alone. I haven't even looked at the other issues yet. My work back on Vargo had been brief: truth be told, I hadn't cared to make it my best work. I didn't think I'd see the guy again, let alone be stuck in his ship with him. I changed his oil pump, lubed up some areas, basically cranked together a passable engine for a short joyride.

"S'what you get, Orellano," I grunt to myself, thumping my forehead against the side of the ship. "Cut corners, and you'll get yourself killed."

"Did you say something?"

Curse this man. "No."

"I — I feel like I just heard you say something."

I roll my eyes. "Nope. You're just losing it."

"Hey, you're the one talking to yourself."

"You..." there's no point arguing back. I just bite my tongue and instead try to focus back in on the pile of crap in front of me. Maybe I'm just being too pessimistic. Maybe this isn't too bad. Maybe I can just use my basic supply to fix this, because how necessary is it that he has all the proper piping? Honestly, this guy isn't like a —

"—how's it lookin, Doc?"

My hand tightens around the valve seal in my hand, fighting the urge to chuck it at his head. I offer no response.

"Is the silence a good or bad thing?"

I stay quiet.

"I feel like it's a bad thing. Are you stressed? You seem stressed."

Maybe it would have been better if we just crashed and died.

"Anyone in there? Hello-o? Grumpy?"

I sigh and lean back on my haunches, sneaking a glare towards 'Peter Quill'. "Do you mind? I'm tryna fix your feckin' ship."

He blinks at me, trying to look as innocent as possible. "I'm just trying to get an idea on what's going on."

"What's going on, is this ship is a pile of crap," I snark back. "And I'm trying to fix that with extremely limited resources. Which is a lot to try'n handle. So, if you don't mind...?!"

"You wanna focus. I'll leave you be."

That's unexpected. "Uh — yeah. Please."

He smiles wide, holding up his hands in surrender. "You won't even notice I'm here, Grump."

I ignore his nickname, choosing gratitude over irritation. "Thanks," I reply, trying to sound genuine this time. It only half works, but better than nothing.

His grin grows larger, but he doesn't say anything back. His vow of silence has already started, I assume, and I'm not complaining.

But.

The quiet lasts three minutes.

Three beautiful minutes, but three incredibly short minutes, too.

"Hey, so — so I don't even know your name?"

The wrench slips and my fingers slam down against hot steel. I muffle a cry with my non-harmed hand, swallowing back my howl as red-hot pain radiates through my joints. Great Krite, I think through blinked-back tears, this guy's gonna be the death of me.

"Do you have a name? Or are you the nameless type?"

I switch the wrench to my left hand, giving my poor fingers a quick break. "Thought you said you were gonna be quiet," I snarl over to where his voice came.

'Peter Quill' laughs heartily, like what I said was funny. "Yeah. Sorry! I'm just a curious guy."

I don't say anything, focusing my energy back onto where I'm working. I crawl further down below the ship and try to make myself as small as possible so he might leave me alone. Hide and sneak as a fully grown adult: how did my life come to this? 

Unfortunately, my plan doesn't work, because my new partner-in-crime is a dick who won't let things be. He pokes a head under the wing of his plan, still grinning cheekily. "D'ya have a bounty on your name? S'that why you won't say?"

I frown. "No."

"Are you a...runaway princess?"

"Go away."

"Yeah, you don't seem the type." He's quiet for a moment. "Are you a spy?"

The piece I've been trying to loosen for the past ten minutes finally comes loose, a little victory that still makes me crack a grin. I examine the rusted piping, trying to gage how useful it still is. The right answer is it isn't, but I'm working with nothing. So I'll take anything.

"If you don't tell me your name, you're gonna be stuck with nicknames. And I can tell you're not really a fan of those."

"We don't have to call each other anything," I tell him. The piece is still useful, I decide, dropping it to the pile by my feet. "We don't gotta say anything."

"Aw, but that's boring."

"You'll get over it."

"C'mon, Grumpy, just give me a name. I'll leave you alone after that!"

Like I'm gonna fall for that again. Considering he barely made it three minutes before (something I'm sure lots of women have said about this twat), I don't have any faith 'Peter Quill' is capable of being quiet no matter what I say.

"Is it something embarrassing? Like...Wilhelmina? Or Grog?"

I sigh and sneak a look at him. He's watching me patiently, crouched underneath his ship like if he stares at me long enough, something will happen.

"You didn't tell me your real name, dumbass, so m'not giving you mine."

"I — what?! Yes I did!"

I snort. "Yeah. Like 'Peter Quill' is your real name."

"It is!"

"Bullshit."

"That's my name! That's just — why would I give you a fake name?"

"'Cause you're a criminal," I shoot back, jabbing my wrench his way. "Duh."

He looks a little offended at my accusation. He crosses his arms across his chest. He's shed his fancy leather coat, I guess because it's not the most practical thing in the world, so he's just in a plain gray shirt. His biceps flex slightly: not impressively, but there's something there, which makes me wonder if he actually does do something. 

Probably not. Just a tag-along joyride idiot. 

"I don't appreciate the stereotyping," he says crossly. "Us Ravagers ain't all that bad, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart."

"Well — I — sorry, but I don't know your name!" 

"Don't mean sweetheart's the replacement. S'demeaning."

"You've called me so much worse in the time we've been stuck together, so talkin' about demeaning ain't really fair." He puffs out his chest a little, like an overstuffed parrot. "Also, Peter Quill is my name. Been stuck with it since birth."

I roll my eyes and pull myself further up the engine. "Sure, buddy."

"I have been honest with you since I met ya, Grumpy. It's you who's keepin' secrets."

I don't know why I keep talking to this idiot, because it's a waste of my time and I have actual things to do, and devoting half my thoughts to a guy who has a nickname for himself isn't one of them. But I keep playing along. 

Don't ask why. I'm wondering that myself.

"You roleplay as a legendary outlaw named Starprince—"

"—Starlord, it's—"

"—and you lied about the money and where you got it, which got us into this blasted situation, so definitely not honest."

He huffs to the right of me, and I can hear his weight shuffling as his feet move. "You're mean, y'know that?"

"Callin' it how I see it."

"You probably don't have any friends 'cause of that, you know. People don't like mean people."

I give a sarcastic chuckle. "I don't like any people, so."

"Wow. You're so cool and different."

"And you're a pain in my ass."

"I could do something else to that ass, if you wanted...?"

My hands scrabble against the ground, searching until I find the rusted metal I pulled earlier. I launch it towards where I know he's standing. When he grunts, I know I hit my target.

"What's that for?!"

"Being a creepy headass."

He groans and shuffles his feet again. "You're no fun."

"No, just not interested in your terrible come-ons." I pause, and before he can say anything, I cut in with a, "and if you say anything about 'coming on' something, you are never gettin' off this rock."

Peter sighs. "Fine." He falls silent, for a moment.

I wait for him to break the quiet, no longer expecting him capable of keeping his mouth shut.

A minute later he does exactly that.

"Peter Quill is my real name."

"You said that."

"You don't sound like you believe me."

"Oh yeah?" I grunt out, wrestling with a loose strip of wiring. "Wonder —  feck! — why."

"I — God, you are so annoying! You know that?"

Peter Quill, calling me annoying? There's a thousand jokes writing themselves there, and I don't think it's necessary for me to call them out for you. Or him. So I just keep barely avoiding electrocution underneath this crumpled heap of a ship, and questioning all of my life's decisions as the idiot above me prattles on.

"I saved your life, y'know that? Like, literally saved it. You would have been crushed by that Truskan, if I didn't do the absolute honour of swooping in and rescuing you. That's just what a guy like me does, but still, you should be a little grateful!"

Maybe I should just shock myself to death. Better than this torture.

"You're such a shithead, y'know that?! I saved your life first. And I'm still saving it by fixing your stupid ship. You ruined my life, got me into this hellhole of a sitch, and I'm being a fuckin' angel by getting you out of it, again. You wanna try gratitude, Starshit?"

He scoffs loud and dramatically above my head. "I ruined your life!? Oh, c'mon sweetheart, you're tellin' me you wanted to rot away on that frozen tit of a planet?"

"That ain't none of your business! It was my life, and you blew it to bits!"

"Maybe I just made it actually interesting? You ever think of that?!"

I glare at him through the strands of greasy hair dangling in my eyes. "All you did was screw everything up!"

"Where's your sense of adventure there, Grumpy?"

"Guess I musta left it on the planet you abducted me from!"

"You mean when I saved your ungrateful ass?!"

This fight goes on for a while. I'll spare you the ugly details; I'm sure you don't need the entire transcript. Long story short, I won, he's still an annoying prick, and we still end up where we were to begin. With nothing, and him still pressing me for information about myself that I will not give him.

"Why were you on Vargo?"

"Nope."

"No, what?"

I sneak a look at him again, just because looking at the dumbass in his flashy red coat makes me feel better during his stupid interrogations. He's got a cocky, hands-on-hips stance, but he's stained with dust and grime just as I am and his outfit looks way worse for wear, considering our crash landing. And his hair's a mess, which I'm sure would kill him to find out.

"You're a mech. But you don't strike me as a Vargo native."

Peter Quill is an idiot, so I'm going to give him a single point for actually catching onto the obvious. Good job there, pal.

"So, what made you go to Vargo?"

My nubs for nails scrabble at the tightly twisted metal haplessly. My fingertips sting, but it's a much nicer pain than the headache I'm being put through.

"Were you hiding out? Or paying off a debt of some kind? Did — did your boss have somethin' on you?"

"Not talkin', Stardick."

"Fine." He huffs, and scrapes his fancy boots against the rocks on the ground. "Then I'm cycling back to the name thing. What is it?"

"No."

"Come on-n-n. You wanna tell me."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No," I repeats, for some reason still playing into this stupid game.

"Yes," he repeats, amusement soaking into his tone.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

And then I slip up.

I'm blaming my head injury.

"You know—"

"—it's Calypso. Okay? Shut up."

Silence follows for a long, harsh moment. The air suddenly feels stagnant; it tastes acrid on my betraying tongue. My hands remain frozen over my work, as though every part of my body realises how much I just fucked up. My eyes are wide, staring up at the metal hull, waiting for it to crush me and end my misery.

I screwed up. Rookie mistake number one. Fatal rookie mistake.

But, no taking it back now.

"Now," my voice trembles, and it sounds fearful: I really wish it hadn't done that. "Now, let me go back to my work."

If Peter Quill hears my words, he doesn't acknowledge them one single bit. "Calypso, huh? Your name's Calypso."

"...yes."

"That's...that's actually really nice."

I frown, my annoyance at myself cut short by a pang of curiosity. "Why do you sound surprised?"

"I wasn't expecting a nice name for an asshole like yourself."

"You—"

"—but Calypso, that's actually a really nice name. A real' pretty name."

My words die in my throat, shriveling up at the compliment. Not because I liked it or anything. But it...does catch me off guard. More than I would be happy to admit. 

"How'd a piece'a shit like you get a pretty name like that?"

Luckily, that brings me right back down to earth.

"Fuck off."

He does not.

"Do you...go by anything else? Or just Calypso?"

Bolt hanging from my lips, I can only give an annoyed hum.

"Do you have any nicknames?"

"No," I grit out, before removing the bolt from my mouth. "No nicknames."

"Damn. D'ya want one?"

"No."

"You're gettin' a nickname."

"I don't—"

"—you've callin' me just about every insult under every sun. I get to give you at least one, don't I, Calypso?"

I don't like the way he says my name there. He purposely drops his voice and lets the trio of syllables roll gently, like he thinks saying it a certain way will make me feel a certain way. And it doesn't. At all. 

Peter Quill, you have no effect over me other than bitter rage, and you can rasp my name however you want but that won't change! I'd bet my life on that.

"I'll be nice and give ya a nice one, too."

"Just kill me," I grumble.

He ignores me. "That name's too pretty for you anyways, pisshead."

"Fuck off, shitface."

"Can I call you Lia?"

How did he even get there? "No."

"Lillie?"

Eugh. "Shut up."

"Okay...what about Callie?"

My hands freeze, paralysed by a force greater than me.

Flashbacks flood. Memories of spindly limbs and stubbornly pressed back tears, of taunting and screaming and bitten to blood lips sting my mind and suddenly I'm twelve years old again, unloved and unwanted, hiding underneath my bed, counting the slats above me and wondering how long until my heart stops bleeding oceans of grief every night.

Callie's been dead since I turned eighteen. I haven't heard anyone mention her name since that day. The little freak who cried every night from her bad dreams had been squashed like a bug — so why was I being reminded of her almost a decade later? 

"Is the silence a yes, or...?"

I blink away the film growing over my eyes, and clench down on the metal around my hands until all I can feel is brilliant, smarting pain radiating. I swallow down the lump in my throat. I feel dizzy and all too aware of my feet on the ground, all at once. 

"So, Callie—"

"No."

My words are a soft mutter, a long cry from the fury I've been spitting all day. And they stumble off my lips pained, like a hurt dog or a brokenhearted drunk. I think this throws him off, because he's quiet again, but in a stifling, uncomfortable fashion. The mood shifts. It feels like I've given away much more with that 'no' then I did with my name, somehow.

There's a strange emotion that tickles the back of my throat, like an itch you can't swallow or scratch. It makes me want to fill the silence that sits heavy on my shoulders, to say something that could fix this. It makes me almost wonder if I've been too quick to bite: or if I was too sharp when I should have extended courtesies I don't remember if I possess.

My new partner in crime might be the worst. But, he might not be all that bad. And he also might just be trying to make the best out of absolute hell.

"Look, it's just—" 

But when I try, after several very long and very awkward moments, to clear the air, he's already acting on his own.

"I've gotta go try'n call the bossman," he says, loud and forcibly bright. "You good to pretend to know what you're doin' under there?"

Nevermind. Scratch every nicety I just thought. He's just the worst.

"You're such a piece of shit," I scowl from my cramped position below his ship.

And Peter Quill just barks out laughter, and flips me off above. "Love ya too, Cal."

Have I ever mentioned how much I despise nicknames?

REFERENCE GUIDE:

Ziegert - One of the more famous bomber ships in the galaxy, first built by the Astranian galaxy during their first civil war. They were then sold galaxy-wide and widely recognized as revolutionizing fighter jets in the new age. They were very long and sharp, designed like Terran swordfish. 

U-Trawler - a large cargo ship. 

This is going to be very very heavily enemies to lovers, just so you're aware. In the petty stupid way. It'll not be too big of a slow burn but. At the same time, it kind of will be. If you read the original story you know kind of what I'm saying. :)

THANK YOU
for reading.