𝘋𝘖𝘎 𝘋𝘈𝘠𝘚 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙 ❥ Peter Quill daughter ✓

09. a little convincing

Layla lay sprawled on the floor of the ship's common area, idly tossing a ball she had liberated from somewhere, up and down. Most of the time, she managed to catch it, but occasionally it would slip from her grasp, bouncing haphazardly across the room.

She let out an exaggerated sigh, glancing around the room for some form of entertainment. Owen, her faithful companion in boredom, was slouched in a nearby chair, snoring softly. The rest of the crew was engrossed in their plans to confront Ronan, a mission Layla had no intention of missing out on, despite her father's likely objections.

Lost in her thoughts, Layla pondered various strategies to convince Peter to let her join the mission. She couldn't help but wonder how she had ended up in this predicament—caught between a desire for adventure and her father's unwavering protectiveness.

"Layla."

The sound of her name snapped her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see someone standing over her. Before she could properly register their presence, the ball slipped from her fingers, connecting with her nose with a painful thud.

"Ah, shit..." Layla winced, sitting up and cradling her throbbing nose. Had that ball been made of metal? It certainly felt like it.

Strong hands landed on her shoulders, and she looked up to see her dad kneeling beside her, concern etched into his features. "You okay, Lay?" he asked, his hands gentle yet firm.

Responding with a few pained grunts, Layla gingerly pressed her hands against her nose, feeling the metallic tang of blood rising in her throat. "Oh, shit, Lay—" Peter's voice was laced with worry as he reached for a nearby cloth.

Taking the cloth from him, Layla followed his instructions, leaning her head back to stem the flow of blood. Peter's hands replaced hers, holding the cloth in place as she settled into a nearby chair, still holding it to her nose.

Peter took a seat opposite her, concern evident in his eyes. "You okay?" he asked again, his voice softer this time.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Layla replied, forcing a reassuring smile despite the unpleasant taste of blood in her mouth.

"I'm sorry about that, bug, I just needed to tell you that we're leaving now," Peter said, his voice tinged with a mixture of apology and firmness.

Layla scoffed, gingerly adjusting the bloody cloth against her nose as she prepared to make her case once again. "Can I please come—"

Peter sighed, shifting back in his seat and preemptively cutting her off. "We talked about this..."

"I'll listen to every word you say!" Layla interjected, her tone pleading as she attempted to sway her father's decision.

"Lay..."

"I'll stay right next to you!" she continued, her desperation evident in her voice as she listed off reasons why she should be allowed to accompany them.

"No, Layla," Peter reiterated, his tone final and resolute. Layla sighed in defeat, but she wasn't ready to give up just yet. "Remember Priric?" he added, attempting to provide some explanation for his decision.

Her mind immediately conjured the image of Priric, one of her dad's old flings. "You mean your old hook up?" she retorted, fixing him with a pointed stare.

Peter cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, her. She agreed to let me drop you and..."

"Owen," Layla interjected, determined to remind her dad of her friend's existence before he could invent some exotic name.

"...yeah, him. Anyways, she agreed to let me drop you off while we go stop Ronan," Peter explained, his words laden with a hint of reluctance.

Layla fixed him with a skeptical gaze, weighing his words carefully before responding. "You always said how I need to learn to defend myself," she pointed out, searching for some semblance of validation in his response.