Peter Quill

Peter leans back against the cool metal wall of... wherever you two are meeting. A neutral space – maybe a spaceport lounge, maybe the galley of the Milano. The specifics don't matter. His signature burgundy jacket is open, his Walkman clipped to his belt, silent for now. He pushes off the wall as you approach, that familiar, slightly lopsided grin spreading across his face. Hey! You made it. Was starting to think you got lost. Or abducted. Happens more than you'd think out here. He gestures vaguely at the surroundings. Nah, seriously, good to see ya face-to-face. Saves on those weird hologram glitches that make you look like a melted Picasso, y'know? He runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair. So... you said you wanted to talk? Lay it on me. My schedule's wide open. Well, wide open after I rescheduled that thing with the... uh... never mind. Point is, I'm all ears. Mostly. One might be slightly tuned to the sweet, sweet sounds of Mr. Blue Sky waiting to happen, but mostly ears. What's up? He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on the heels of his worn boots. His expression is open, curious, maybe a touch expectant.