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.
[ even something as seemingly simple as letting the others see her while injured is significant for gamora. before, while still under thanos's thumb, there was no scenario where she would have left herself openly vulnerable like this; but here, with the guardians, she doesn't try to hide the fact that she's been hurt. she handles it differently, yes, but she isn't denying that damage has been done.
she's accepting help, after all, and letting peter do something so seemingly minor for her (but, in reality, this is also significant). she isn't in any hurry to see the braid finished, either, and even if she could have finished this quickly with two working arms, she doesn't see a need to rush him or otherwise. it's still...nice having someone else touching her hair.
there's a tiny quirk of her lips, but only because she's not looking back at peter, because she doesn't think he'll see it. ]
I won't break it again. It should be fully healed by tomorrow, anyway.
[ but she holds up her arm, giving a demonstration of her fingers slowly (painfully slowly) extending and flexing, then curling into a fist. if she goes about it with some degree of patience, her hand doesn't shake (but that does, in fact, require said patience). ]
[ When she moves, Peter glances up, watches her work her hand again. It still makes him wince, if only because he remembers how bad the break had been, how unnatural her arm had looked after the blow.
(Jesus, that second had terrified him. Because he honestly thought a hit as devastating as that would've left her vulnerable.
He feels a little guilty for his momentary lapse in judgement. He apparently forgot that Gamora is a certified fucking Badass. Capital B.) ]
That's very impressive and all, but— I still think you should give it till morning till you try to put yourself through your paces.
[ which is...true. as far as gamora's concerned, just flexing her fingers is the easiest and least painful thing she could be doing with her slowly healing arm.
but she lets her hand fall back into her lap, her other fingers rubbing gently at her forearm and the small ache kicked up by the exercise. ]
You don't need to worry so much over the state of my arm, Quill. It should heal without incident.
I'm not worried over the state of your arm. I'm worried over the state of you.
[ And maybe Peter should be more embarrassed by admitting that, but— well, it has to be obvious by now.
He worries over his team, all of them, worries over his role as captain, worries if he's doing his job with any sort of efficacy. And days like today? It's like shaking a Magic 8-Ball and every answer being, All signs point to no.
Even with as slow as he was going, Peter reaches the end of the braid. Slowly, he reaches over to the table, plucking up the little hair tie. ]
Today was a shitty day. [ Simply, though there's a grim edge to the words. ] Said it yourself, right? You and I are gonna react to things very differently.
[ that gives gamora pause. she hadn't really considered that quill might be concerned with more than just her broken arm, because, in her mind, there's very little else to worry over. ]
It didn't go well.
[ also putting it mildly, but mostly because she doesn't hold peter accountable for it. things went wrong, they weren't given the right information, but they handled it.
there could have been more disastrous results than a broken limb, in all honesty. ]
Then what exactly has you so concerned?
[ it's a question that's broader than just over what happened today.
[ ... complicated is what he wants to say. Dismiss it all away and call it good. That's kind of his thing, after all. Ignoring the problems, burying them away until he can pretend he's forgotten them.
But that's not going to work, because Peter has to learn from his mistakes, these days, has to face them and deal with them and learn to be better, but he doesn't know how to fucking start. Because instead of spotting the mistakes, figuring out how to improve, he gets stuck in a spiral of what-ifs and should've dones until it starts dragging him down. And he just boxes everything away to deal with later.
Which he never does.
He ties off the braid at last, the light tips of her hair curling slightly at the ends, and he lets the plait rest against her back. ]
You know— [ This, after a long second of silence, after a deep breath. He licks his lips, one of his hands coming to rest against his side when a bruise twinges slightly. ] —if you had just been a couple steps to the right, that club would've slammed into your head, not your arm.
[ the braid is finished, and gamora finds she's almost...disappointed by that. but instead of pursuing that line of thought, she turns slightly in her hair to look up at peter. ]
I'm aware.
[ of course she is. she's run through many of those possibilities in her mind, played out every scenario with different variables, but at the end of the day— ]
It didn't.
[ she gestures to the chair next to hers, in a "have a seat" kind of way. ]
I wasn't as prepared as I should have been. Are you bothered that I was caught off guard?
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[ ...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. ]
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[ 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?
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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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she's accepting help, after all, and letting peter do something so seemingly minor for her (but, in reality, this is also significant). she isn't in any hurry to see the braid finished, either, and even if she could have finished this quickly with two working arms, she doesn't see a need to rush him or otherwise. it's still...nice having someone else touching her hair.
there's a tiny quirk of her lips, but only because she's not looking back at peter, because she doesn't think he'll see it. ]
I won't break it again. It should be fully healed by tomorrow, anyway.
[ but she holds up her arm, giving a demonstration of her fingers slowly (painfully slowly) extending and flexing, then curling into a fist. if she goes about it with some degree of patience, her hand doesn't shake (but that does, in fact, require said patience). ]
See? It has already improved.
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(Jesus, that second had terrified him. Because he honestly thought a hit as devastating as that would've left her vulnerable.
He feels a little guilty for his momentary lapse in judgement. He apparently forgot that Gamora is a certified fucking Badass. Capital B.) ]
That's very impressive and all, but— I still think you should give it till morning till you try to put yourself through your paces.
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[ which is...true. as far as gamora's concerned, just flexing her fingers is the easiest and least painful thing she could be doing with her slowly healing arm.
but she lets her hand fall back into her lap, her other fingers rubbing gently at her forearm and the small ache kicked up by the exercise. ]
You don't need to worry so much over the state of my arm, Quill. It should heal without incident.
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[ And maybe Peter should be more embarrassed by admitting that, but— well, it has to be obvious by now.
He worries over his team, all of them, worries over his role as captain, worries if he's doing his job with any sort of efficacy. And days like today? It's like shaking a Magic 8-Ball and every answer being, All signs point to no.
Even with as slow as he was going, Peter reaches the end of the braid. Slowly, he reaches over to the table, plucking up the little hair tie. ]
Today was a shitty day. [ Simply, though there's a grim edge to the words. ] Said it yourself, right? You and I are gonna react to things very differently.
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It didn't go well.
[ also putting it mildly, but mostly because she doesn't hold peter accountable for it. things went wrong, they weren't given the right information, but they handled it.
there could have been more disastrous results than a broken limb, in all honesty. ]
Then what exactly has you so concerned?
[ it's a question that's broader than just over what happened today.
it's also an offer to listen to him. ]
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[ ... complicated is what he wants to say. Dismiss it all away and call it good. That's kind of his thing, after all. Ignoring the problems, burying them away until he can pretend he's forgotten them.
But that's not going to work, because Peter has to learn from his mistakes, these days, has to face them and deal with them and learn to be better, but he doesn't know how to fucking start. Because instead of spotting the mistakes, figuring out how to improve, he gets stuck in a spiral of what-ifs and should've dones until it starts dragging him down. And he just boxes everything away to deal with later.
Which he never does.
He ties off the braid at last, the light tips of her hair curling slightly at the ends, and he lets the plait rest against her back. ]
You know— [ This, after a long second of silence, after a deep breath. He licks his lips, one of his hands coming to rest against his side when a bruise twinges slightly. ] —if you had just been a couple steps to the right, that club would've slammed into your head, not your arm.
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I'm aware.
[ of course she is. she's run through many of those possibilities in her mind, played out every scenario with different variables, but at the end of the day— ]
It didn't.
[ she gestures to the chair next to hers, in a "have a seat" kind of way. ]
I wasn't as prepared as I should have been. Are you bothered that I was caught off guard?
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Probably not the way you think, though.
[ He hesitates before he finally sinks into the seat beside her, slouching down. ]
I should've seen 'em coming sooner.
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...you think this was the result of your failure?
[ he'd been just as wrapped up as the rest of them in that fight, after all. how could he have possibly alerted her any earlier than he had? ]
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