( peter's as equally unworried about his stomach lining as she is — he figures that if he's managed to survive this long on a diet that is classed predominately as "questionable", he thinks he'll be okay.

and realistically speaking, he should be dead by now anyway, so it's a moot point. but for the grace of a guy with a powerful goatee and a penchant for alliteration.

she answers the door and he's not sure if she's quite what he was expecting. he thinks that she is, for as much as appearances mean anything: a careful, poised appearance that manages to align with almost every military personnel he's had the (mis)fortune of meeting.

he's less dishevelled than he had been when he'd first woken up, although his shirt and his pants are both clearly well-worn and well-loved, and his hair, whilst still in need of a cut, has been brushed.

hashtag winning. )

Oh my god, ( he says by way of greeting. no 'hi', no 'hello, this is peter quill', no 'what was this about my stomach lining?' ) The last time I was on Earth, they'd decided kale was trendy. Something about the Hulk and green and smashing? ( a beat. ) I guess Popeye and spinach aren't cool anymore.

( this will be very embarrassing, he thinks, if this isn't ms. uss enterprise-chapel. )