[ And for the second time today, when she says his name, he shuts up, startled. On instinct, his gaze snaps down to his lap – because this time, it feels like the lecture voice. The I'm not mad, I'm disappointed voice. And he braces himself for impact.
He's not prepared for her to reach out, to rest her hand on his knee, and he follows the line of her arm up to her face, staring at her in astonishment. His heartbeat kicks up, pounding against the inside of his ribs. His mouth goes dry, and he realizes, as if for the first time, just how damn close she is. Peter's always found Gamora drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous, but—
He finds he likes her best in these quiet moments, when conviction blazes in her eyes, something quietly fierce and determined.
The problem, though, is that it's difficult to find it in himself to agree with her, because he keeps thinking, If Yondu were running this job, none of this shit would've happened. And Yondu might be a fucking dickweed, but he was an effective dickweed. A fucking asshole who knew what he was doing, while Peter—
Well. Peter's just a fucking asshole, more often than not.
His gaze drops again, down and away to glance at the mess assembled atop the table. Bits of wires and half-formed gadgets. Drax's oil cloths, from maintaining his blades. A forgotten twig, here and there, left behind from pruning Groot. Gamora's comb. Peter's Walkman. He lets out a slow breath, picks at a crease in his trousers. ]
Is this— [ he gestures to the table. ] Are we— is it working?
no subject
He's not prepared for her to reach out, to rest her hand on his knee, and he follows the line of her arm up to her face, staring at her in astonishment. His heartbeat kicks up, pounding against the inside of his ribs. His mouth goes dry, and he realizes, as if for the first time, just how damn close she is. Peter's always found Gamora drop-dead-fucking-gorgeous, but—
He finds he likes her best in these quiet moments, when conviction blazes in her eyes, something quietly fierce and determined.
The problem, though, is that it's difficult to find it in himself to agree with her, because he keeps thinking, If Yondu were running this job, none of this shit would've happened. And Yondu might be a fucking dickweed, but he was an effective dickweed. A fucking asshole who knew what he was doing, while Peter—
Well. Peter's just a fucking asshole, more often than not.
His gaze drops again, down and away to glance at the mess assembled atop the table. Bits of wires and half-formed gadgets. Drax's oil cloths, from maintaining his blades. A forgotten twig, here and there, left behind from pruning Groot. Gamora's comb. Peter's Walkman. He lets out a slow breath, picks at a crease in his trousers. ]
Is this— [ he gestures to the table. ] Are we— is it working?