[ At this point, Peter’s pretty sure they need to ban the phrase, “It’ll be easy,” or any variations thereon. Or start up a collection or something, every time someone says “easy,” “simple,” “painless,” or anything else, like a swear jar – that one might be better, just so they can pad their “someone got their dumbass thrown in jail, and now we have to pay bail” fund.
That particular fund gets depleted quite often, unfortunately. And Peter would rather not put on, like, a bake sale to line their coffers.
(Though making Rocket go door to door wearing a little beret and a sash, trying to sell cookies? Kind of a hilarious mental image.)
Peter’s not sure how it is that their intel is so fucked up as to neglect mentioning more than three dozen men, but it is, and it does, and the ensuing fight is fucking brutal. Teamwork is still a new concept to the Guardians, which means that when the fight breaks out, they get separated pretty easily – in spite of Peter’s shouted command, Stay together!
Easier to watch each other’s backs that way.
It logically follows that no one listens to him.
It’s like herding cats, in the end, his focus frayed in trying to keep an eye on everything at once. It’s purely incidental that he manages to claim higher ground; evading some dickwad with an oversized mallet led to a quick jump, and a burst from the jets attached to his boots lets him clamber over the railing to a second level platform. Makes it easier to shout out warnings and keep everyone apprised of the state of the battlefield.
( “Rocket, watch your fire. Almost took me out just then, you asshole. Drax— Shit! Fuck, that was close— Drax, five incoming from the hallway. Gamora, three on your left—” )
He sees when it happens, and he shouts Gamora’s name when it does, moves to leap down from his vantage point, though he’s not sure what the fuck he plans to do. A blade slices through the air to his left, and Peter reels back to avoid getting his head chopped off. The sword clashes and sparks against the metal railing, barring Peter’s way. And by the time Peter’s taken care of that sword-wielding douchebag, Gamora is darting into cover, setting the broken arm. Her curses make Peter flinch bodily in sympathy, and he manages a quick, “You okay?” while shooting fuckmooks in the face. He receives a curt response in the affirmative.
Doesn’t believe it for a second, of course, and worry gnaws at him. Still, there’s little they can do about it while men still stand, and so Peter keeps fighting, trying to end the battle that much faster.
Later, convincing Gamora to let him help with her arm proves to be the much more difficult fight.
Hours later, he’s exhausted, but still wired, mind buzzing and replaying the day’s events. Today had been bad. Thanks to his training sessions with Gamora, Peter managed to not return to the Milano with a knife in his gut or a bullet in his heart, but he didn’t come through unscathed. He’s got one hell of a killer headache, thanks to a blow to the head – his helmet took the brunt of the damage, but it still rung his bell pretty badly; he’s got the bruising along his left cheekbone to prove it. And more punches and kicks had landed on him than not, which means his torso is a mess of sickly green and purple splotches.
Today had been bad, he thinks again, and that icy tendril of fear still grips his throat. Because skill and dumb fucking luck managed to see all of them through, but what if it hadn’t? Rocket nearly got squashed by a mallet. Drax nearly got run through by a sword. Peter nearly got peppered with bullets and blaster burns (and some of that was nearly friendly fire, which is another fucking problem entirely). And Gamora— well, if that club had gone for her head instead of her arm—
His mind scampers away from that thought.
It was a fucking mess today. Maybe even worse than their usual messes, and it rouses something dark and cold in his chest.
Some fucking team, he thinks. Some fucking leader, and that thought is bitter, makes bile rise in his throat.
He thinks, Is this really working?
When he finds Gamora in the middle of her third attempt, his headphones are fixed over his ears, his Walkman clipped securely to his belt. Awesome Mix Vol. 2, tonight.
He spies her grimace as her fingers grasp at her hair, and he tugs his headphones down to hang around his neck.
(Listen to the wind blow, just audible over the little speakers. Watch the sun rise—) ]
[ gamora knows exactly who approaches by the sound of quill's footsteps, and she doesn't turn to look at him as she keeps trying to focus on her hair. ]
What does it look like?
[ pointed, flat, though her annoyance is far more with her own attempts than with his question. she folds a segment of hair over another with her good hand, but the next step with her second practically shakes what little progress she'd made right out of the messy braid.
a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, and her hands fall away from her hair, her gaze turning to quill instead. ]
[ That look of doubt makes him bristle a little, and he crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly self-conscious, which happens only rarely.
Mostly, when he's talking to Gamora. Otherwise, when something brushes through the waters of his past, kicking up the silt of old memories. ]
Yes, I know how.
[ Peter's not entirely sure why that look of mistrust sets his teeth on edge so badly, but it does.
(The question flits through his head again: Is this really working?) ]
When I was a kid—
[ But his mouth snaps shut. Mom showed me how, sits on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. Wasn't anyone's business, he decides abruptly, that Mom taught him to braid her hair when he was 8 years old, while she busied herself with other things. Checking over his homework, trying to show him how horribly mangled his math was, while he just shrugged and let her correct it. Sewing up the holes in his shirts from when he and the other boys started swinging fists. Washing the dishes from that evening's dinner, while Peter stood on a chair behind her.
Then later, just because she was too exhausted (too sick) to do it herself.
He shoves the words away, but the shadow of the memory still flickers across his face, there and gone again. ]
[ gamora has spent enough time around peter to catch that edge of self-consciousness, the flash of memory as he interrupts himself. she recognizes it in herself sometimes, remembered moments that flit in and back out just as quickly in such a brief instance of vulnerability that it slips through fingers like oil — but it leaves enough of an imprint, if you know what to look for.
(and with some evenings spent in the relative quiet of the ship, just the two of them, gamora thinks that she does.)
she considers him carefully, like she's weighing the benefits of letting quill get this close again, but finally, ]
All right.
[ she nods towards the table where, beside the box of knives, is a comb and a small tie.
her hands fall back into her lap, but she rubs gently at her forearm, at the ache that's kicked up again as she'd tried to take care of this herself. she tries to flex her fingers, but when everything momentarily shakes with the attempt at a controlled movement, she just makes a fist and decides to leave it.
[ He can practically see the scales tipping back and forth behind her eyes, when he finally risks a glance up. Apparently they tip in his favor, since she accepts his offer, directs his attention to the table.
He offers a bare nod as he takes the chair beside her, scooting it a little closer. Hesitantly, gingerly, like he expects she still might change her mind and snap his wrist at a false movement, he gathers her hair, lets her curls fall over her back, combs through it with his fingers.
(Peter’s always been privately fascinated by her hair, the way it shifts from dark to light, the way sunlight catches in reddish pink strands. There was a day or two where Peter found himself staring at her hair when he thought she wasn’t looking, like he meant to commit the transition to memory.
(He did.))
During that time, he sees the way she smooths her hand over her broken arm, how she tests the limb, and Peter clicks his tongue in disapproval. ]
Stop messing with it.
[ And Peter’s almost surprised that he has to be the one to tell her this. ]
[ gamora can't honestly remember the last time someone else touched her hair (in such a manner that didn't involve grabbing it and yanking hard enough to try separating strand from scalp). she's tense at first, but mostly out of a need to calm those years-trained responses and that instinct to defend herself, but— she can set that aside with quill.
she knows that.
easing into the gentle motion of his fingers through her hair, she almost leans into the touch, into how nice it feels. unbidden, her eyes slip shut, and she settles more into her seat. ]
I have been letting it rest.
[ though she still sounds frustrated with the statement. ]
I am only attempting to gauge progress.
[ ...more like trying to force herself to return to her usual level of function. she doesn't like that this takes the time that it does, and while she knows that she isn't an environment that demands immediate perfection, there's still a flicker of fear in her chest that sparks each time she finds herself in need of more than a brief respite.
(it's a fear she would never show to her siblings, a weakness and hesitation that remains buried out of a desperate interest in her own safety.
they would take advantage the second they saw any sign of wavering, and gamora knows it.) ]
How ‘bout you stop “gauging progress”— [ A bit of sarcasm in his voice when he echoes the words. ] —and give it till, like, the morning?
[ There’s little sharpness to his voice, though, just the quiet undercurrent of concern. Peter hates seeing his teammates hurt, hates it even more when they’re being dumb about it and just making things worse, trying to act like nothing was wrong. And while Peter would never call Gamora dumb – at least, not to her face, or even within fifty miles of her – he does think that the way she treats herself after injuries is, you know.
Pretty dumb.
His fingers comb through Gamora’s hair for a second or two longer – which is a second or two longer than necessary, if he’s honest – before he slowly reaches for the comb still resting on the table, starts parting her hair into sections. ]
It's not gonna get any better just ‘cause you’re feeling impatient.
she flexes her fingers again, slow and careful, only to have them shake as she tries to straighten her digits. ]
...it's fine.
[ "ish."
she holds her hand steady, forcing her fingers to remain extended as long as she can bear it, before she has to abandon the exercise with another exasperated little noise of complaint. ]
The bone itself is no longer fractured.
[ she can tell that much. it's still fragile (enough that it could potentially break again if she were to use her arm to strike something now), but a lot of the repairs still in effect have to do with muscle and nerves. ]
If you know it's fine, then why do you keep messing with it?
[ It's been a while since he's done this, but the memory comes back slowly. He carefully pulls back her hair – still tentative and slow, in case Gamora's instincts take over, or she just suddenly decides to lash out. (Gamora reminds him a lot of a house cat, sometimes. The way they could just suddenly decide to get swipey.)
He sections her hair at the top, and he starts in on the pattern – or tries to, anyway. The first try isn't quite right, and he lets the hair loose, combing it through with his fingers and starting over. The second time isn't quite it, either, and when he starts in on the third, he murmurs, ]
Sorry, 's been a while.
[ But the third time's the charm, and he gets the hang of it, carefully gathering in hair from the sides, incorporating them into the braid as he goes. ]
Should you, I dunno. Put your arm on ice or something? Put a cast on it?
[ quill is lucky the movement of his fingers feels so nice, even after the second failed attempt to start the braid. she tips her head back to give him a look, but it's brief and only half-heartedly harsh before she relaxes again, lets him find his rhythm with the braid.
her eyes close with a slow, measured sigh, and something approaching a pleased hum slips free as his fingers run through her hair, over her scalp with each additional section added. ]
I could, but it isn't necessary. My arm will heal whether or not I employ other means to steady it.
[ ice or a cast would be more for the sake of comfort than anything else, and...gamora isn't the best at doing things just because they'd be comfortable. if it isn't an absolute necessity, she'll completely forego it — and sometimes, not even remember that anything of the sort is an option. ]
My modifications are intended to negate the need for additional first aid.
[ It's a damn lucky thing he's concentrating so intently on getting this damn braid right that he misses the soft sound she makes.
It probably would've driven him slightly crazy.
His brow is furrowed as he works, the tip of his tongue caught lightly between his teeth as he concentrates. He's definitely rusty at this, but he's finding his stride again as she speaks. ]
But it still hurts.
[ A statement, not a question. That much was obvious from watching her just a few moments ago, splaying her fingers, forcing the mending bone and muscle to work when they didn't seem quite ready. And even just from the way she favored it, running her good hand up and down the injury. ]
I can get you an ice pack after this, you know. Painkillers. We don't keep that stuff around just as decoration, remember?
[ it's not repeated on a question, and despite the fact that quill still has her hair in her hands, she tries to turn her head to look at him. ]
It is not "torturing myself", Quill. It's discipline. A warrior does not resort to comforts for the inconvenience of pain, and at this point, that is all this has become. I am not inhibited, I am not unable to function; I'm uncomfortable.
But I am not suffering.
[ she turns back in her seat, looking straight ahead (though she doesn't try to shake him off or bat his hands away, like she might have a while ago). ]
This, Peter Quill, is not torture.
Edited (when u decide to format/emphasize differently) 2017-02-18 07:13 (UTC)
[ He yelps it sharply as she turns to glare at him, though he manages to keep a hold on her hair to keep it from unraveling itself.
When she turns back around, he makes another face at the back of her head, moves his mouth in a mimicry of her speech. He definitely mouths "I'm a warrior" with a distinctly mocking expression.
He's heard it, time and time again. I'm a warrior. I'm an assassin. Warriors and assassins don't do anything except kill, kill, kill. And he gets that this is the sort of thing that gets written onto your bones, the kind of thing etched and scarred into her skin, but— ]
You're allowed to take a break, you know.
[ He has to tighten the braid up a little, thanks to Gamora having moved around, but he easily fixes it. ]
You don't have to be a warrior every second, every minute of the day. You can take time to just— be.
[ well, at least he salvages the braid (though she wouldn't mind if he had to do it again; there are worse fates).
she settles, not turning to offer him another glare, though she still sounds exasperated. ]
That is too vague. Be what?
[ it's still a concept that escapes her, even farther removed from thanos. she's never just been, never really existed as herself and not a weapon or a tool. ]
Whatever you want. That's what I've been trying to tell you, man.
[ He's reached the nape of her neck, and he pauses with his braid, keeping her hair gathered in his hands. ]
Be what you want. Be you. Be, I dunno, a friggin' unicorn if you want. I'm just saying, when we're not working, when we're not on the job, you don't have to always be some stoic, terrifying assassin who doesn't take painkillers or ice bruises or gives herself time to just— hell, I dunno. Take a nap.
You can clock out, is what I'm getting at. Even Nova Prime goes on vacations, every once in a while.
[ gamora is quiet as she processes what peter has to say, absorbing every word instead of interrupting him. she maintains that silence for a long moment, and then, finally, ]
Listen. [ And that comes hot on the heels of his last words, as if trying to stave off further questions. ]
That's not important. What is important is you don't always have to feel like you've gotta prove yourself worthy. 'Cause— you already are. You're the biggest, baddest person in the galaxy.
[ she could ask plenty more questions about what a horse happens to be, and what the significance of its horn is, but instead, she listens, just like he asks. ]
...I know, Peter.
[ and there's his first name, soft but intentional. ]
I am still learning who I am outside of Thanos's control. This is a process for me.
[ she flexes her hand again slowly, but the careful way she goes about it makes it shake just a bit less. ]
But I think I will always be a warrior, and I will go about many things in ways you do not.
[ she glances over her shoulder again, though her expression doesn't hold disdain this time, even the glare having melted away. ]
Unless I'm actively harming myself, my means of recovery are my own. I am not posturing or— however you interpret my behavior. I have accepted your help with this — [ she gestures vaguely to her hair. ] — because I am willing to make more allowances for myself when I have been injured.
[ because she's learning to do that, to show some form of weakness around him. letting him braid her hair is a big step, because not only is it physically close, it's also a moment of allowing herself to admit that she couldn't do it.
Hardly anyone ever calls him that anymore, so when he hears it formed on Gamora's voice, he just.
Stops.
Which is probably what she intended, because when she continues, he listens, for once. Winces a little, too, because he realizes he's kind of being a dick about this. Kind of being unfair, but—
He worries. He can't really help it. He never quite had Yondu's knack for detaching, for spending one second drinking along with the Ravagers, patting guys on the back, to shrugging his shoulders when his crew didn't come back from jobs, when they ended up stabbed or shot or burnt to a crisp.
"Shoulda been better," is all he would say on the topic, and he'd move on.
Peter's not like that, though not for lack of trying, but seeing his team hurt or hurting flips a switch in him, makes him hover uncertainly, because he hates that helpless feeling, the gnawing coldness that tells him he can't do anything to make it better.
He's quiet for a long moment, forming words, discarding them, trying again, before he sets back to braiding her hair, falls into the pattern of overlapping the sections, twisting and tucking. It's easier, now that it's a basic braid, but he's still slow about it.
He fucks up practically everything. He just wants to get something right, for once. ]
... Sorry.
[ Slow, cautious, just as most of what he's done tonight. ]
Just— I mean, shit, Gamora. You practically got your arm shattered today. If I were you, I'd be happy to still have the damn thing at all, but there you are, pissed that it's not healing faster.
I'm just hoping you'll be careful, is all. Give yourself a couple seconds to breathe.
[ she shakes her head, but not enough to displace his hands. ]
You and I are very different. How you respond to an injury won't be the
same for me, because I have a differing tolerance – and because I have
been through this process before.
[ and this isn't necessarily a criticism of him. they are
biologically different, and because of that, they can experience damage in
wholly separate ways. ]
It doesn't frighten or deter me because I know I am fine.
[ He sounds a little unsure, if only because it's still so weird to him, recovering from a break as devastating as that in less than a day.
But he trusts Gamora, and if she says she's fine, then— well, okay, sometimes she's not fine. Sometimes she's bullheaded about her need for self-reliance and never showing weakness, and blah, blah, blah, but—
She's getting better. If this had happened a week after they first met, she would've holed herself up in some dark corner, probably, would've kept fucking up her arm as she braided her own hair, but she's in the center of the ship. She's letting Peter, of all people, do this, and—
It's a step forward.
Peter slows a little as he reaches the halfway point of the braid. Nearly done, and a part of him is a little reluctant to let it end. So he slows a little, focusing on keeping the braid neat and tidy. ]
As long as you're not gonna break it all over again. 'Cause I'm, you know. I'm pretty sure I can only handle seeing one of those a day.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That particular fund gets depleted quite often, unfortunately. And Peter would rather not put on, like, a bake sale to line their coffers.
(Though making Rocket go door to door wearing a little beret and a sash, trying to sell cookies? Kind of a hilarious mental image.)
Peter’s not sure how it is that their intel is so fucked up as to neglect mentioning more than three dozen men, but it is, and it does, and the ensuing fight is fucking brutal. Teamwork is still a new concept to the Guardians, which means that when the fight breaks out, they get separated pretty easily – in spite of Peter’s shouted command, Stay together!
Easier to watch each other’s backs that way.
It logically follows that no one listens to him.
It’s like herding cats, in the end, his focus frayed in trying to keep an eye on everything at once. It’s purely incidental that he manages to claim higher ground; evading some dickwad with an oversized mallet led to a quick jump, and a burst from the jets attached to his boots lets him clamber over the railing to a second level platform. Makes it easier to shout out warnings and keep everyone apprised of the state of the battlefield.
( “Rocket, watch your fire. Almost took me out just then, you asshole. Drax— Shit! Fuck, that was close— Drax, five incoming from the hallway. Gamora, three on your left—” )
He sees when it happens, and he shouts Gamora’s name when it does, moves to leap down from his vantage point, though he’s not sure what the fuck he plans to do. A blade slices through the air to his left, and Peter reels back to avoid getting his head chopped off. The sword clashes and sparks against the metal railing, barring Peter’s way. And by the time Peter’s taken care of that sword-wielding douchebag, Gamora is darting into cover, setting the broken arm. Her curses make Peter flinch bodily in sympathy, and he manages a quick, “You okay?” while shooting fuckmooks in the face. He receives a curt response in the affirmative.
Doesn’t believe it for a second, of course, and worry gnaws at him. Still, there’s little they can do about it while men still stand, and so Peter keeps fighting, trying to end the battle that much faster.
Later, convincing Gamora to let him help with her arm proves to be the much more difficult fight.
Hours later, he’s exhausted, but still wired, mind buzzing and replaying the day’s events. Today had been bad. Thanks to his training sessions with Gamora, Peter managed to not return to the Milano with a knife in his gut or a bullet in his heart, but he didn’t come through unscathed. He’s got one hell of a killer headache, thanks to a blow to the head – his helmet took the brunt of the damage, but it still rung his bell pretty badly; he’s got the bruising along his left cheekbone to prove it. And more punches and kicks had landed on him than not, which means his torso is a mess of sickly green and purple splotches.
Today had been bad, he thinks again, and that icy tendril of fear still grips his throat. Because skill and dumb fucking luck managed to see all of them through, but what if it hadn’t? Rocket nearly got squashed by a mallet. Drax nearly got run through by a sword. Peter nearly got peppered with bullets and blaster burns (and some of that was nearly friendly fire, which is another fucking problem entirely). And Gamora— well, if that club had gone for her head instead of her arm—
His mind scampers away from that thought.
It was a fucking mess today. Maybe even worse than their usual messes, and it rouses something dark and cold in his chest.
Some fucking team, he thinks. Some fucking leader, and that thought is bitter, makes bile rise in his throat.
He thinks, Is this really working?
When he finds Gamora in the middle of her third attempt, his headphones are fixed over his ears, his Walkman clipped securely to his belt. Awesome Mix Vol. 2, tonight.
He spies her grimace as her fingers grasp at her hair, and he tugs his headphones down to hang around his neck.
(Listen to the wind blow, just audible over the little speakers. Watch the sun rise—) ]
... What are you doing?
no subject
What does it look like?
[ pointed, flat, though her annoyance is far more with her own attempts than with his question. she folds a segment of hair over another with her good hand, but the next step with her second practically shakes what little progress she'd made right out of the messy braid.
a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, and her hands fall away from her hair, her gaze turning to quill instead. ]
Is there something you require?
no subject
[ He watches her for a moment longer, crossing one segment of hair over the other, starting to pull over the third segment—
Ah.
He winces in sympathy as the braid undoes itself, though he wipes it from his face when she turns her gaze up to him. ]
I— no. Just wandering.
[ Hesitation is written across his face for a second, but he steels himself and steps forward. ]
I can do that. [ His gaze flicks to her hair falling over her shoulder. ] If you want.
no subject
[ stubborn, of course. refusing to acknowledge how badly the limb was actually mangled today.
but the offer genuinely catches gamora off guard, and she stares at him for a long moment, before something skeptical sets into her look. ]
You know how?
[ because this isn't exactly a skill that's come to light previously, and gamora finds herself marginally dubious.
(she's already decided that he will have a broken wrist if he uses this as an opportunity to pull some sort of foolish prank.) ]
no subject
Mostly, when he's talking to Gamora. Otherwise, when something brushes through the waters of his past, kicking up the silt of old memories. ]
Yes, I know how.
[ Peter's not entirely sure why that look of mistrust sets his teeth on edge so badly, but it does.
(The question flits through his head again: Is this really working?) ]
When I was a kid—
[ But his mouth snaps shut. Mom showed me how, sits on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. Wasn't anyone's business, he decides abruptly, that Mom taught him to braid her hair when he was 8 years old, while she busied herself with other things. Checking over his homework, trying to show him how horribly mangled his math was, while he just shrugged and let her correct it. Sewing up the holes in his shirts from when he and the other boys started swinging fists. Washing the dishes from that evening's dinner, while Peter stood on a chair behind her.
Then later, just because she was too exhausted (too sick) to do it herself.
He shoves the words away, but the shadow of the memory still flickers across his face, there and gone again. ]
I just— know how, okay?
no subject
(and with some evenings spent in the relative quiet of the ship, just the two of them, gamora thinks that she does.)
she considers him carefully, like she's weighing the benefits of letting quill get this close again, but finally, ]
All right.
[ she nods towards the table where, beside the box of knives, is a comb and a small tie.
her hands fall back into her lap, but she rubs gently at her forearm, at the ache that's kicked up again as she'd tried to take care of this herself. she tries to flex her fingers, but when everything momentarily shakes with the attempt at a controlled movement, she just makes a fist and decides to leave it.
for now. ]
I expect you'll do it well.
no subject
He offers a bare nod as he takes the chair beside her, scooting it a little closer. Hesitantly, gingerly, like he expects she still might change her mind and snap his wrist at a false movement, he gathers her hair, lets her curls fall over her back, combs through it with his fingers.
(Peter’s always been privately fascinated by her hair, the way it shifts from dark to light, the way sunlight catches in reddish pink strands. There was a day or two where Peter found himself staring at her hair when he thought she wasn’t looking, like he meant to commit the transition to memory.
(He did.))
During that time, he sees the way she smooths her hand over her broken arm, how she tests the limb, and Peter clicks his tongue in disapproval. ]
Stop messing with it.
[ And Peter’s almost surprised that he has to be the one to tell her this. ]
You have to let it rest to heal up, don’t you?
no subject
she knows that.
easing into the gentle motion of his fingers through her hair, she almost leans into the touch, into how nice it feels. unbidden, her eyes slip shut, and she settles more into her seat. ]
I have been letting it rest.
[ though she still sounds frustrated with the statement. ]
I am only attempting to gauge progress.
[ ...more like trying to force herself to return to her usual level of function. she doesn't like that this takes the time that it does, and while she knows that she isn't an environment that demands immediate perfection, there's still a flicker of fear in her chest that sparks each time she finds herself in need of more than a brief respite.
(it's a fear she would never show to her siblings, a weakness and hesitation that remains buried out of a desperate interest in her own safety.
they would take advantage the second they saw any sign of wavering, and gamora knows it.) ]
no subject
[ There’s little sharpness to his voice, though, just the quiet undercurrent of concern. Peter hates seeing his teammates hurt, hates it even more when they’re being dumb about it and just making things worse, trying to act like nothing was wrong. And while Peter would never call Gamora dumb – at least, not to her face, or even within fifty miles of her – he does think that the way she treats herself after injuries is, you know.
Pretty dumb.
His fingers comb through Gamora’s hair for a second or two longer – which is a second or two longer than necessary, if he’s honest – before he slowly reaches for the comb still resting on the table, starts parting her hair into sections. ]
It's not gonna get any better just ‘cause you’re feeling impatient.
no subject
[ ...maybe a little, but not intensely.
she flexes her fingers again, slow and careful, only to have them shake as she tries to straighten her digits. ]
...it's fine.
[ "ish."
she holds her hand steady, forcing her fingers to remain extended as long as she can bear it, before she has to abandon the exercise with another exasperated little noise of complaint. ]
The bone itself is no longer fractured.
[ she can tell that much. it's still fragile (enough that it could potentially break again if she were to use her arm to strike something now), but a lot of the repairs still in effect have to do with muscle and nerves. ]
no subject
[ It's been a while since he's done this, but the memory comes back slowly. He carefully pulls back her hair – still tentative and slow, in case Gamora's instincts take over, or she just suddenly decides to lash out. (Gamora reminds him a lot of a house cat, sometimes. The way they could just suddenly decide to get swipey.)
He sections her hair at the top, and he starts in on the pattern – or tries to, anyway. The first try isn't quite right, and he lets the hair loose, combing it through with his fingers and starting over. The second time isn't quite it, either, and when he starts in on the third, he murmurs, ]
Sorry, 's been a while.
[ But the third time's the charm, and he gets the hang of it, carefully gathering in hair from the sides, incorporating them into the braid as he goes. ]
Should you, I dunno. Put your arm on ice or something? Put a cast on it?
no subject
her eyes close with a slow, measured sigh, and something approaching a pleased hum slips free as his fingers run through her hair, over her scalp with each additional section added. ]
I could, but it isn't necessary. My arm will heal whether or not I employ other means to steady it.
[ ice or a cast would be more for the sake of comfort than anything else, and...gamora isn't the best at doing things just because they'd be comfortable. if it isn't an absolute necessity, she'll completely forego it — and sometimes, not even remember that anything of the sort is an option. ]
My modifications are intended to negate the need for additional first aid.
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It probably would've driven him slightly crazy.
His brow is furrowed as he works, the tip of his tongue caught lightly between his teeth as he concentrates. He's definitely rusty at this, but he's finding his stride again as she speaks. ]
But it still hurts.
[ A statement, not a question. That much was obvious from watching her just a few moments ago, splaying her fingers, forcing the mending bone and muscle to work when they didn't seem quite ready. And even just from the way she favored it, running her good hand up and down the injury. ]
I can get you an ice pack after this, you know. Painkillers. We don't keep that stuff around just as decoration, remember?
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[ the jab is much softer than it could have been, though still an effort to disregard the offer.
"thank you, but no thanks." ]
It hurts because it has been broken, and because a lack of pain would make me ineffective as a warrior.
[ and because with thanos, it had been a teaching method. ]
It is a reminder to be more cautious in the future.
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He still aches. His head still throbs. And even with all that training Gamora's been giving him, he still practically got his ass kicked, today.
Thankfully, she speaks, distracting him from his little stumble over his insecurity hurdle, and Peter makes a face at the back of her head. ]
Okay, wow, that's—
[ welp. here it comes. ]
That's dumb.
[ here lies peter jason quill, space-prince. beloved son, captain, and galactic-level idiot. ]
I'm pretty sure breaking the arm in the first place is reminder enough, Gamora. What you're doing is torturing yourself.
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Dumb.
[ it's not repeated on a question, and despite the fact that quill still has her hair in her hands, she tries to turn her head to look at him. ]
It is not "torturing myself", Quill. It's discipline. A warrior does not resort to comforts for the inconvenience of pain, and at this point, that is all this has become. I am not inhibited, I am not unable to function; I'm uncomfortable.
But I am not suffering.
[ she turns back in her seat, looking straight ahead (though she doesn't try to shake him off or bat his hands away, like she might have a while ago). ]
This, Peter Quill, is not torture.
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[ He yelps it sharply as she turns to glare at him, though he manages to keep a hold on her hair to keep it from unraveling itself.
When she turns back around, he makes another face at the back of her head, moves his mouth in a mimicry of her speech. He definitely mouths "I'm a warrior" with a distinctly mocking expression.
He's heard it, time and time again. I'm a warrior. I'm an assassin. Warriors and assassins don't do anything except kill, kill, kill. And he gets that this is the sort of thing that gets written onto your bones, the kind of thing etched and scarred into her skin, but— ]
You're allowed to take a break, you know.
[ He has to tighten the braid up a little, thanks to Gamora having moved around, but he easily fixes it. ]
You don't have to be a warrior every second, every minute of the day. You can take time to just— be.
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she settles, not turning to offer him another glare, though she still sounds exasperated. ]
That is too vague. Be what?
[ it's still a concept that escapes her, even farther removed from thanos. she's never just been, never really existed as herself and not a weapon or a tool. ]
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[ He's reached the nape of her neck, and he pauses with his braid, keeping her hair gathered in his hands. ]
Be what you want. Be you. Be, I dunno, a friggin' unicorn if you want. I'm just saying, when we're not working, when we're not on the job, you don't have to always be some stoic, terrifying assassin who doesn't take painkillers or ice bruises or gives herself time to just— hell, I dunno. Take a nap.
You can clock out, is what I'm getting at. Even Nova Prime goes on vacations, every once in a while.
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...what is a unicorn, Quill?
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... a horse with a horn on its head.
Listen. [ And that comes hot on the heels of his last words, as if trying to stave off further questions. ]
That's not important. What is important is you don't always have to feel like you've gotta prove yourself worthy. 'Cause— you already are. You're the biggest, baddest person in the galaxy.
You're fine. We get it.
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...I know, Peter.
[ and there's his first name, soft but intentional. ]
I am still learning who I am outside of Thanos's control. This is a process for me.
[ she flexes her hand again slowly, but the careful way she goes about it makes it shake just a bit less. ]
But I think I will always be a warrior, and I will go about many things in ways you do not.
[ she glances over her shoulder again, though her expression doesn't hold disdain this time, even the glare having melted away. ]
Unless I'm actively harming myself, my means of recovery are my own. I am not posturing or— however you interpret my behavior. I have accepted your help with this — [ she gestures vaguely to her hair. ] — because I am willing to make more allowances for myself when I have been injured.
[ because she's learning to do that, to show some form of weakness around him. letting him braid her hair is a big step, because not only is it physically close, it's also a moment of allowing herself to admit that she couldn't do it.
that's still huge for gamora. ]
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Hardly anyone ever calls him that anymore, so when he hears it formed on Gamora's voice, he just.
Stops.
Which is probably what she intended, because when she continues, he listens, for once. Winces a little, too, because he realizes he's kind of being a dick about this. Kind of being unfair, but—
He worries. He can't really help it. He never quite had Yondu's knack for detaching, for spending one second drinking along with the Ravagers, patting guys on the back, to shrugging his shoulders when his crew didn't come back from jobs, when they ended up stabbed or shot or burnt to a crisp.
"Shoulda been better," is all he would say on the topic, and he'd move on.
Peter's not like that, though not for lack of trying, but seeing his team hurt or hurting flips a switch in him, makes him hover uncertainly, because he hates that helpless feeling, the gnawing coldness that tells him he can't do anything to make it better.
He's quiet for a long moment, forming words, discarding them, trying again, before he sets back to braiding her hair, falls into the pattern of overlapping the sections, twisting and tucking. It's easier, now that it's a basic braid, but he's still slow about it.
He fucks up practically everything. He just wants to get something right, for once. ]
... Sorry.
[ Slow, cautious, just as most of what he's done tonight. ]
Just— I mean, shit, Gamora. You practically got your arm shattered today. If I were you, I'd be happy to still have the damn thing at all, but there you are, pissed that it's not healing faster.
I'm just hoping you'll be careful, is all. Give yourself a couple seconds to breathe.
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If you were me?
[ she shakes her head, but not enough to displace his hands. ]
You and I are very different. How you respond to an injury won't be the same for me, because I have a differing tolerance – and because I have been through this process before.
[ and this isn't necessarily a criticism of him. they are biologically different, and because of that, they can experience damage in wholly separate ways. ]
It doesn't frighten or deter me because I know I am fine.
...but I will not reinjure it, I assure you.
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[ He sounds a little unsure, if only because it's still so weird to him, recovering from a break as devastating as that in less than a day.
But he trusts Gamora, and if she says she's fine, then— well, okay, sometimes she's not fine. Sometimes she's bullheaded about her need for self-reliance and never showing weakness, and blah, blah, blah, but—
She's getting better. If this had happened a week after they first met, she would've holed herself up in some dark corner, probably, would've kept fucking up her arm as she braided her own hair, but she's in the center of the ship. She's letting Peter, of all people, do this, and—
It's a step forward.
Peter slows a little as he reaches the halfway point of the braid. Nearly done, and a part of him is a little reluctant to let it end. So he slows a little, focusing on keeping the braid neat and tidy. ]
As long as you're not gonna break it all over again. 'Cause I'm, you know. I'm pretty sure I can only handle seeing one of those a day.
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