[ The misstep catches him slightly off-guard, and for a second he looks not quite apologetic, but something broaching dangerously close. He expects this Gamora wants him here even less than he does. Given the magic the Harbinger was wielding, given how little they know of it, he's lucky to have arrived in a universe that was at least a little familiar.

Who knows where the Peter Quill of this reality ended up?

If these Guardians are lucky, he is somewhere safe.

... But if these Guardians have the type of luck his Guardians have, he probably isn't.

He falls silent for a breath again, uncertain. Then, tentatively, ]

The Gamora of my world has beads like that. She didn't learn how to braid them in.

[ Another hesitation, as his gaze flicks to the doorway, satisfying himself with the fact that the other members of the Guardians weren't soon to arrive. He's a little bitter to realize that even so far removed from home, he's too proud to admit he does something as frivolous as braid.

It's why he lowers his voice. ]

I tried, but I could tell it wasn't quite right.

[ There had been a slight frown on Gamora's face, he remembers – not of disapproval, but of thoughtfulness. Like knowing something in a room was out of place, but not knowing what it was. She had thanked him, nevertheless, and had satisfied herself with his method, but the perfectionist in him demanded that satisfactory wasn't enough. ]