Return of the partial genderswap! I'm so sorry. It wouldn't leave me alone. Anyways, here's a dumb oneshot that probably makes zero sense but I can relate to it on a deep level (heels, man). The next chapter of Defining Family should be up soon, along with more oneshots than I can handle.

Enjoy!

It starts with Nova Prime's thrice-accursed assignment. Or, more accurately, the words "diplomatic ball" and a collective laugh from the Guardians. Unfortunately, if Nova Prime's down-turned eyebrows are anything to go by, she is not making a joke.

"When you say 'ball' you don't mean, like, anything fancy, do you?" Petra asks half-hopefully, playing with a loose strand of hair as she tends to do when nervous.

It's taken a while, but the Guardians have finally reconciled themselves to the idea that Petra is, for better or for worse, their designated leader. The Nova Corps is a bit slower on the uptake, which may or may not have something to do with the glaringly obvious fact that Petra is the only female, not to mention human, on a team of killing machines and/or super-enhanced male beings.

It's probably a semi-valid point-Petra does have a tendency to come off as the most fragile of their group, if her constant hospital visits are anything to go by. But anything else implied in such statements is not only completely irrelevant but rather annoying on the whole.

Yes, Petra is Terran, and yes, she is a she, but the other Guardians could care less-because when it comes to leading their psychotic team, Gamor would be hard-pressed to suggest anyone better for the job. Maybe she is immature and over-confident and sings so often and so off-key Gamor's surprised they haven't all gone deaf, but that doesn't mean she isn't also smart and calculating and incredibly adept at reading both people and situations-all things that have saved his life more times than he can count.

So Petra is their unofficially official leader and everyone is fine and happy with it.

Except maybe Petra, who looks vaguely ill at the thought of this ball.

"Yes, Miss….Star-lady…that is exactly what I mean," Nova Prime says crisply. "A diplomatic ball, to be exact, in order to facilitate peace between Xandar and the Kree."

Now Gamor probably looks vaguely ill, along with the rest of the team.

"Isn't that, like, begging for bloodshed?" Rocket asks, Groot nodding in agreement.

"With the Guardians of the Galaxy in attendance, hopefully not," Nova Prime says pointedly.

"So you want us to stand around at some fancy diplomatic ball and make sure everyone doesn't kill each other," Petra deadpans.

"Standing around is not required," Nova Prime says, almost slyly. "We need people to be at ease, not feeling pressured because they are being watched from the shadows." Gamor gets a sinking feeling.

"So you're saying-"

"Participation will be necessary," Nova Prime says, with a definite air of smugness. "As well as formal dress."

"Ew," is Petra's only reply, banging her head on the table as the rest of the team, Gamor included, groan. Nova Prime sighs.

"One evening. Just one evening of good behavior, and you can be out of here with the assurance that you've done a great good."

"And a substantial amount of our money," Rhomann Dey mutters. Most of the team seems to brighten at that reminder.

"Well, it's only one evening, I guess," Petra says reluctantly. "We're in." Nova Prime smiles.

"Thank you. The ball is tomorrow evening-be there no later than half an hour prior. I'll have the mission files sent to your apartment."

"Thanks," Petra mutters as they file out of the conference room, awkwardly nodding at Nova Prime as they leave.

"Well this should be fricking fantastic," Rocket says as they exit the chambers.

"The mission requires I wear a shirt. I do not see how it can be enjoyable," Drax says.

"Aw, c'mon guys!" Petra says, forcing enthusiasm. "It'll be fun! Food and wine and stuff-and dancing, duh. And dressing up won't be that bad."

Rocket snorts.

"What," Petra says flatly, glaring at him.

"Just imagining," he says, half-giggling. "You, in a dress."

Gamor finds himself snorting along as he pictures it- gun-toting, leather-jacket wearing, unmannered Petra, surrounded by diplomats in voluminous dresses. Drax looks equally amused.

"An amusing image," he grins.

Petra, on the other hand, does not look amused at all.

"Um, I am a woman," she says. "Dresses are kinda standard things."

"Yeah, but you?" Rocket laughs. "Hilarious."

Gamor finds it funny as well, right up until Petra mutters "I'm going to check the Milano", and practically storms away.

The laugher dies. Gamor feels the beginnings of confusion-laced anxiety.

"Somethin' I said?" Rocket asks.

It was easier, she thinks sometimes, being Star-lord. To hide behind her mask and cocky taunts, passing for a long-haired boy with an overlarge red coat, and to become the identity she created for herself when Meredith Quill died: Star-lord, the reckless, fearless, and confident outlaw, strong and unbreakable with awesome taste in music. Not Petra. Never Petra-Petra was soft and vulnerable and Terran-pronounced-with-a-sneer, the fragile, wrecked girl who only knew how to hurt people.

Petra, to put it shortly, was a mess.

Still, though, it stung to remember who Star-lord-or, more accurately, Star-lady-was really supposed to be; the brave, kind-hearted hero who shone as bright as the stars themselves. That is her mother's Star-lady.

It really, really stings to think of what an abysmal failure she's made of that.

But hey-she's really trying now, she's got a job protecting people and a family and everything-she's doing good stuff. Heck, she saved the universe- and sacrificed herself twice. And yeah, maybe it worked out to her advantage in the end, but the point's still there.

So all in all, she thinks she's doing a pretty good job.

Which is why she really, really, cannot afford to be thinking of such completely stupid things as her looks when she's got a mission this important.

It's so stupid-she's never cared about her looks before. Well, okay, that's not entirely true-she knows she's not hideous- it's just never really been that big of an issue before (aside from the occasional- okay, fine, frequent- flirting for information, but half the time that was with dead-drunk morons so it doesn't really count). She shouldn't, doesn't, care.

So why does she get that awful stomach-dropping feeling when Gamor laughs along with the others?

Maybe it's just because it's Gamor, period- there's obviously something between them, but no open declarations, so she's not really sure where exactly they stand- and she doesn't quite fancy another knife to the throat, thank you very much. So they're friends for now, best friends, really, and it's great and fun and comfortable and Petra likes it.

Except she also really, really likes Gamor, but she tells herself that's unimportant.

Mission. The mission. Attempt to broker peace between the Xandarian and Kree diplomats while making sure no one murders anyone. Piece of cake.

Now what the heck is she going to wear-

She forcefully screeches her brain to a halt. Do not go there, Quill, she tells herself firmly. She'll wear a stupid dress and probably look stupid in it, but she'll still be Star-lady, team leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, and that's a lot more important than how she looks. Professionalism over attractiveness. She needs to worry about whether or not she can hide her blaster under her dress, not whether said dress accentuates her figure or not.

And stars forbid she even thinks about her hair. Stupid, rebellious, curly mess-

Mission. The mission is what's important here. She needs to show that. Needs to show that she can lead this team successfully, Terran or no. Needs to prove that she doesn't screw everything in her life up. She needs to kick this mission's ass.

….and hey, if she ends up looking exceptionally good while doing it, that's just a bonus.

She's pretty sure she saw a sale in one of the dress shops near their temporary apartment anyways.

Gamor is a bit worried. It's been hours since anyone's seen Petra, and the ball is starting in thirty minutes-they need to be in place soon. That's the only reason he is concerned. He is just concerned for the mission. They need to establish their credibility as Guardians of the Galaxy, and any tardiness will hinder that. That is all.

…fine. Maybe he's worried about their half-Terran leader. Can anyone blame him? They've been an official team for several months now and Petra's nearly gotten herself killed over twenty times. Those occasions have proven not to be particularly beneficial for Gamor's heart rate, either.

But if he's going to be honest with himself, he is also rather worried that her absence has nothing to do with assassins or criminals with exceptionally good aim. There is, however slight, a chance she might be angry with him.

It is a ridiculous notion-Petra is his best friend, the only best friend he's ever had-if they fight, it is explosive and short-lasting. If she were angry at him, she would have made it clear. Besides-it's not as if he's said anything particularly insulting.

Except there was that moment on the way out of the Xandarian meeting chambers when Rocket made a comment about her looks, and he agreed aloud-but he hardly thought it was that insulting. Petra was wild and tough and beat-up Ravager jackets with scuffed-up boots and messy ponytails.

That did not mean she wasn't pretty, of course- stars only knows how many times Gamor's had to glare down passerbies with incredibly invasive and lecherous stares. (And he's certainly never stared at her himself, not at all.) It is simply that elegance and finery and beauty are words that have never really attached themselves to her. He meant no insult.

Yet somehow he cannot forget the way her face seemed to darken and fall after his laugh, seconds before she swept away.

He shakes his head, straightening out his own black dress clothes. He does not need to worry about such trivial things now- the mission is his focus, and Petra needs to mature and get here already-

The door slams and Petra's breathless "Sorrygotcaughtintraffic-" echoes through the room. Good. She's unharmed and, miraculously, back in time. He sighs wearily, turning to her as he mentally prepares a half-lecturing remark-

-and stops dead when he sees her.

He's not sure that it's even her at first, but her glinting hazel eyes are the same, bright and excited as always. Those he can deal with.

The floor-length red dress is throwing him for a loop. That has nothing to do with the fact that said dress is flowy and backless and clingy.

The hair is throwing him off as well, perfectly curled and falling in rivulets to her shoulders, bright strands of gold scattered between the reddish-brown waves.

And she's wearing make-up -faint traces, mind you, but enough to make her hazel eyes particularly large and her eyelashes particularly long. And these earrings that catch the light every time she turns her head.

There is a very beautiful woman standing in front of him and he has no idea where his worn, rough-edged Petra Quill went.

"Quill?!" Rocket asks incredulously, voicing the entire team's bewilderment.

"That's my name!" she says airily, waltzing by as she salutes Nova Prime. "All Guardians here and accounted for, ma'am."

If Nova Prime is equally as stunned, she does a much better job of hiding it.

"Thank you. You all look wonderful," she says with a smile. "The first guests are beginning to arrive, so I would suggest joining the party."

"Will do," Petra says. She turns to them, sweeping dramatically towards the door. "Shall we go?"

"What the hell happened to you?" Rocket asks as he stares, slack-jawed. Gamor has a feeling his face looks quite similar.

"I put on a dress, duh," she says, rolling her eyes. "Didn't you say it'd be hilarious? You look like Nova Prime just made out with you."

Gamor faintly notes that she is taking far too much pleasure in the situation.

"But you're all…fancy," Rocket says. "And wait-what?"

"Our friend has a point," Drax says. "Though you do look most becoming." Petra colors.

"It's a fancy party," she says, shrugging. "Gotta look fancy to play the part! You guys don't look half-bad either."

After another moment's gaping, Rocket gives up, shaking his head.

"Fricking dresses," he mutters as he heads out the door, followed by Drax and Groot. Gamor follows a beat after, a bit hesitant.

"Petra," he says as he passes her. "I-"

Petra cuts him off before he can continue, looking panicked all the sudden.

"Um, yeah-so this should be-this should be fun, as long as we play it cool- piece of cake, really-"

Gamor frowns at her rambling.

"I was just…" he trails off, uncertain of what to say. Petra stares at him, hazel eyes wide. He stutters to a halt.

"Um…"

"I-um…"

Fantastic. Now they're both stuttering 'um' at each other.

"I'm gonna go dance with that guy," Petra says quickly, pointing at the blue-skinned Kree ambassador to the right of them. "He looks kinda murderous."

Before Gamor can reply with any comments on the inherent murderous intent of the ambassador, Petra darts away, sliding up near the ambassador with a cheerful greeting. He can practically see her charm come to life about her as the Kree ambassador looks, wonder of wonders, genuinely interested.

Wonder of wonders. He feels a sudden urge to shove a knife through the ambassador's hand as he slips it around Petra's waist, leading her to the dance floor.

It's going to be an unpleasant evening, he can already tell.

So apart from sending the jaws of her teammates plummeting to the floor, it turns out there's not a whole lot dressing up nicely does for Petra. It's always nice to be noticed, of course, but this is borderline ridiculous.

Revolting might be a more accurate word, actually.

Thanks to her own complete and utter stupidity she's currently stuck talking to some stuck-up Kree diplomat, who is smack in the middle of telling her how well she dances (duh), how pleasingly exotic her Terran looks are (ew), and how wonderfully cultured and well-mannered she is (is he high?). Come to think of it, she's been getting a lot of statements like those tonight. And yeah, she's dressed-up and on her best behavior, but seriously? Petra Quill, Ravager-raised and foul-mouthed outlaw, cultured?

She feels an insane urge to rip off her heels and run around telling everyone how she obliterated a Kree fanatic into purple dust while wielding an Infinity Stone, all through the power of dance and friendship. That's something to be proud of. And, bonus, it's true!

Also probably not the best thing to bring up at a peace meeting. Dang. Looks like she's stuck awkwardly dance-talking with Mr. Thinks-He's-The-Shit Kree diplomat.

She tunes him out, feeling a stab of annoyance towards Gamor. Didn't he say he'd always have her back, like, a week ago? Sure, maybe dancing together wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but she'd kill for a friendly face right now, someone she wouldn't have to grit her teeth and spew sugar-coated lies to about how wonderful her childhood in space was.

And yeah, maybe she just really wants to dance with Gamor, but that's not important. She's pretty much blown it, anyways, going to a hundred humiliated pieces when he'd tried to talk to her. Stupid, Quill, stupid.

The Kree diplomat keeps talking about his many achievements, subtly (but unfortunately not subtle enough) pulling her closer, hands possessive. She feels a tick starting in her jaw. She's been hit on before, of course, fought off plenty of drunken idiots, but this kind of flirting just sets her on edge-and she can't fricking do anything about it.

The last time some dude came on to her this hard he got a face-first introduction to the bottom of her rocket boots. She wonders how many intergalactic wars she'll start if she tries that here.

Except wait, she couldn't even if she wanted to, because her feet are currently jammed in these stupidly painful and inconvenient heels. She feels a strong urge to murder whoever decided these were the height of fashion. Leave it to her and they'd all be wearing, like, fuzzy slippers, or super-comfy boots or something. That would be a height of fashion she could get behind.

And whoops- now the ambassador is looking pointedly at her, the air heavy with a recently-asked question she completely ignored. She gives a panicked laugh, hoping it's the right reaction- apparently not, because he is now pulling her closer and getting a very predatory gleam in his eyes.

She awkwardly tries to pull back. It's been said that she has no concept of personal space, which is kinda true- but this is the kind of space invasion she can't stand. And yeah, the guy is getting way too handsy now, did he completely miss her 'get-the-hell-off' expression or is he just-

Bang.

And there's the blaster fire and screaming Nova Prime was worried about. Dang it all.

She yanks herself apart from the ambassador, glancing wildly around the room. She catches Rocket's eye then Gamor's, the two looking equally as concerned and lost as her. There's another smattering of gunfire, shot into the air, and Petra catches sight of a band of Kree diplomats- who she's going to guess aren't really all that diplomatic- aiming their weapons at the guests. Crap.

Rocket and Groot are first into the fray, bless them both, attacking the men with a crazed battle-cry, drawing their attention. Drax is next, Gamor close behind, and the room erupts into chaos.

Which, unfortunately, leaves Petra with the task of getting the screaming diplomats out of the way. Swearing profusely she grabs the Kree ambassador, kicking over a nearby table and throwing him behind it. The other ambassadors seem to have gotten the same idea, taking cover behind tables and occasionally sprinting for the door.

A blast rocks the room and there's another chorus of hysterical screams. Petra grits her teeth, pressing the Kree ambassador further back against the table. She hopes she isn't breaking any social rules.

The poor ambassador looks terrified, eyes darting around wildly. Petra bites her lip, running all possible scenarios through her head where she doesn't disgrace Xandar. Another smattering of blaster fire hits near them and Petra gives up.

"Screw this," she mutters, ignoring the ambassador's horrified stare as she yanks the skirt of her dress up, revealing the blaster strapped to her thigh.

"Stay here," she tells the wide-eyed Kree. She takes several quick breathes before shoving herself out from behind the table, letting out a battle cry as she joins the fray.

The redeeming thing about heels, she learns, is that they make for the most satisfying kicks ever. Especially when you nail an assassin in the face. Her dress is a bit less redeeming, but thankfully it's loose enough to where she can dart around freely in it-she takes a minute to thank her lucky stars that she didn't go with the strapless dress.

She darts through the chaos with ease, dress whirling about her as she spins around to blast another gun-wielding Kree in the face. If she's going to be honest, she totally feels like a badass right now, kicking guys in the face with heels and shooting people in her twirly dress-

And then her hair gets in her mouth and kind of ruins the picture, but whatever. Stupid hair. This is why she wears a ponytail.

She's caught up in spitting it out when the damned dress takes its toll- and man, that thing is vindictive. The red fabric catches and she goes down hard, losing her grip on her gun as she hits the floor. It's horrifically humiliating- but it also sends her down right before one of the Kree attackers slices off her head, so there's that redeeming ray of sunshine.

Except now he's got his sword trained on her, a wicked grin on his face. Dang it.

"Petra!" she hears Gamor's concerned cry from off to the side. Out of the corner of her eye she can just see him battling several Kree, attempting to get to her. It's a nice gesture, but she's got a feeling he'll be too late.

The Kree is still smiling, but her gun is right there- if she could just reach it before he stabs her, she's in the clear-

"I wouldn't try anything, little Terran," the Kree says, still smirking. "Delicate thing like yourself should sit things like this out, princess."

Oh, but he did not. Strike one for the Terran-with-a-sneer, strike two for the delicate, and a very deadly strike three for the princess.

Forgoing her gun she throws herself forward, elbowing him hard in the stomach as she slams her hands up to the arm holding the knife, forcing his hands away as she jumps to her feet. The Kree's face is incredulous and he quickly snarls, other hand reaching for his gun-

And there's the heel to the face. If they weren't so blasted painful to walk in, she'd seriously consider getting herself some heeled boots, she thinks with satisfaction as she watches him wail on the ground, hands clamped over his face.

"I'm a Star-lady, jerk," she says, swiping her gun off the floor and kicking his weapons away.

"And I'm not fragile," she says as she heads to the others, kicking him in the stomach for good measure as she leaves.

She smiles at the cry of pain from behind her as she joins the others, the remaining attackers nearly completely incapacitated by now. She stuns a guy right before Gamor spins to knife him, grinning at his surprised look. His expression quickly melts into one of relief, shaking his head.

"I am thoroughly convinced that the galaxy hates us all," he declares as the others join them, surveying the damage.

"Nah," Petra says. "If it hated us we wouldn't have half this much fun." She grins cheekily at Gamor's exasperated look.

"I'm with Quill," Rocket says, grinning. "That was exactly what this party needed." Groot hums in agreement.

"I concur," Drax says. "The slow movements of this dancing were far too boring for my taste."

"And that's why we stick to Blue Swede, bud." Petra says, smacking a hand on his shoulder. "Though I don't think Nova Prime shares our joy," she adds as the woman strides towards them, face pinched.

Ah well. At least she'll get to ditch the heels now.

All things considered, Gamor thinks the ball went rather well. Well, for their standards, at any rate. Any event that doesn't end in fire and obliterated buildings and a trip to jail is considered a major victory in their book.

Nova Prime seems less enthusiastic, but that probably has more to do with the damage to the Xandarian ballroom than the overall success of the mission. Which, Gamor would like to point out, was incredibly successful- despite the gunfire and the panic, there was a miraculous count of zero casualties. The injury count wasn't quite as impressive, but injuries would heal. Death and a full-blown war would be considerably less reparable.

Nova Prime congratulates them, informing them of the successful (and considerably more detailed than the first) treaty drawn up between the Xandarians and the Kree just this morning before the ambassadors left.

Petra looks crestfallen, muttering something about wanting to have given 'handsy idiots' a piece of her mind. Gamor has to suppress a smile, briefly meeting the other's eyes.

There is no reason their team leader needs to know that a particular Kree ambassador fled Xandar in hysterics last night, shortly after a brief encounter with four homicidal ex-criminals who did not take well to people forcing themselves on the fifth member of their team.

Besides, the ambassador prevented him from dancing with Petra, something he had been looking forward to- once he managed to collect his brain matter into some semblance of his normal self after being floored by her appearance. He never did get to tell her she looked beautiful. He's wondering if he even should have.

But he feels that maybe he should, anyways - if only to build up her surprisingly low self-confidence. It doesn't have to be a romantic gesture, he tells himself.

He half-wishes it was.

He likes Petra, that much he is certain of. Whether or not pursuing a relationship with her will end in anything short of utter chaos and ruin is up for debate.

"Ready to ditch?" Petra's voice yanks him out his musings, the half-Terran looking cheerful, once again clad in her trademark red leather jacket.

"Now that Rocket has his money?" he says, returning her smile. "Sure."

"Good," Petra says. "I'm losing my mind here. And I can barely walk." Gamor raises an eyebrow.

"Heels," she clarifies, grinning ruefully. "Complete death traps. Remind me not to take Nova Prime up on any diplomatic meetings again."

"I believe we can all agree on that one," Gamor says. "Though it wasn't all terrible."

"Oh really?" Petra says sardonically.

"I believe you made a point," he says with a slight smile. "With your dress."

"Oh," Petra says, coloring. "Yeah. That was, um- I guess I looked pretty stupid."

"Not really," Gamor says as casually as he can manage. "You looked rather lovely, to be honest."

Petra makes a strangled sound, face going redder than her jacket. Gamor feels his own face darkening, heat crawling up his cheeks.

"Um -"

"Um-"

They stutter at the same time, both faces flushing, and Gamor is unable to suppress a snort. Petra laughs.

"Thanks," she says. "But um- don't get used to it or anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he replies, a small smile on his face. It's not much, he thinks, as they walk towards the Milano, but it's a start.