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No— I mean, yes—
I mean—
[ He lets out a noise, something caught between a frustrated grunt and an incredulous laugh. ]
That’s— I’m just—
Seriously. You’re good with that. $15000. You’re not gonna try to talk me down, even a little?
I mean—
[ He lets out a noise, something caught between a frustrated grunt and an incredulous laugh. ]
That’s— I’m just—
Seriously. You’re good with that. $15000. You’re not gonna try to talk me down, even a little?
[ He stares at her for another second before he finally just— cracks, by letting out a laugh that’s probably a half-octave too high. ]
Holy shit.
[ He has to be dreaming. Any second now, he’s going to wake up in his shitty apartment and this whole thing will have been some late night fantasy.
... Oh, but fuck it. It’s a good dream, even if it is one. ]
Okay. [ He can’t help but sound dazed and excited and incredulous, all at once. ] Then— yeah. I guess I’m yours.
Holy shit.
[ He has to be dreaming. Any second now, he’s going to wake up in his shitty apartment and this whole thing will have been some late night fantasy.
... Oh, but fuck it. It’s a good dream, even if it is one. ]
Okay. [ He can’t help but sound dazed and excited and incredulous, all at once. ] Then— yeah. I guess I’m yours.
[ Gamora lets him process, watching his face the whole time for each cue and flicker of emotion that rapidly progresses through various shades of incredulity and excitement.
And then—
"Okay."
Gamora leans back in her chair, pleased (and relieved). ]
Then after breakfast, we'll have to go shopping.
And then—
"Okay."
Gamora leans back in her chair, pleased (and relieved). ]
Then after breakfast, we'll have to go shopping.
Right. That.
[ And even if he tries to cast the response dully, like a kid who was just told he needed to visit a distantly related aunt, his current excitement over how much fucking money he’s getting at the end of the week undercuts it. ]
Just don’t go too crazy while you’re dressing me up like a Barbie doll. That’s all I ask.
[ And even if he tries to cast the response dully, like a kid who was just told he needed to visit a distantly related aunt, his current excitement over how much fucking money he’s getting at the end of the week undercuts it. ]
Just don’t go too crazy while you’re dressing me up like a Barbie doll. That’s all I ask.
Right.
[ He finally shakes himself, picking up his utensils again to scoop up another forkful of scrambled eggs. ]
Can I at least count on you to help with the undressing?
[ He finally shakes himself, picking up his utensils again to scoop up another forkful of scrambled eggs. ]
Can I at least count on you to help with the undressing?
[ He laughs a little, mirroring her smirk with a wider one of his own. ]
I just figured you didn't want me to go nuts with your credit card and come back with, like, armfuls of vintage records.
[ He pauses as he's reaching for the coffee kettle, pouring himself a mug. Now that he knows he's not about to be kicked out, he's forcing himself to slow down his eating – going from focused and determined to something approaching more civilized human levels. ]
So this is what you do then? You're like... like a business ambassador or something? You come in with peace offerings and make your way out with multi-million dollar deals?
I just figured you didn't want me to go nuts with your credit card and come back with, like, armfuls of vintage records.
[ He pauses as he's reaching for the coffee kettle, pouring himself a mug. Now that he knows he's not about to be kicked out, he's forcing himself to slow down his eating – going from focused and determined to something approaching more civilized human levels. ]
So this is what you do then? You're like... like a business ambassador or something? You come in with peace offerings and make your way out with multi-million dollar deals?
Well, you must be good at it.
I dunno how else you could sweep into town, drop, like, almost $20000 on some random guy, and not have to ask for permission first or explain yourself later.
I dunno how else you could sweep into town, drop, like, almost $20000 on some random guy, and not have to ask for permission first or explain yourself later.
Sounds like a fun family affair.
[ And he says it lightly. Admittedly, he's sure there's a lot of work behind whatever it is they do, and if Gamora told him how much money were at stake, he'd sure his head would spin. Hell, he's still reeling from $15000, much less whatever exorbitant sums Gamora must deal with on a daily basis.
He sips at his coffee, then ventures, ]
Is your sister working on this deal, too?
[ And he says it lightly. Admittedly, he's sure there's a lot of work behind whatever it is they do, and if Gamora told him how much money were at stake, he'd sure his head would spin. Hell, he's still reeling from $15000, much less whatever exorbitant sums Gamora must deal with on a daily basis.
He sips at his coffee, then ventures, ]
Is your sister working on this deal, too?
Ah.
[ A little sympathetically.
Not that Peter can entirely relate, having never had siblings and almost certainly having never had to worry about fucking up a deal worth way too much money to comprehend. He does at least understand dealing with unwanted competition. ]
Well, I’ll do my best to make sure you look good.
[ A little sympathetically.
Not that Peter can entirely relate, having never had siblings and almost certainly having never had to worry about fucking up a deal worth way too much money to comprehend. He does at least understand dealing with unwanted competition. ]
Well, I’ll do my best to make sure you look good.
Will it surprise you to hear I'm not concerned about your performance?
[ She wouldn't ask Peter to do this if she thought he'd embarrass her. He may not live in her world, but she doesn't anticipate him making her regret hiring him for this particular job. ]
[ She wouldn't ask Peter to do this if she thought he'd embarrass her. He may not live in her world, but she doesn't anticipate him making her regret hiring him for this particular job. ]
[ And he does, in fact, cast her an incredulous look. ]
I can’t tell if that’s a sex joke or not.
[ Because he can perform well, but all bets are off when it comes to passing off as a yuppie.
Apparently he’s mostly had his fill of breakfast, having worked his way through eggs and sausage and picking at everything else available – the fruits and oatmeal and yogurt – and now he’s just picking at a croissant.
He tears off a piece and pops it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, ]
But, I mean, I guess I could screw the competition, if you really wanted me to.
I can’t tell if that’s a sex joke or not.
[ Because he can perform well, but all bets are off when it comes to passing off as a yuppie.
Apparently he’s mostly had his fill of breakfast, having worked his way through eggs and sausage and picking at everything else available – the fruits and oatmeal and yogurt – and now he’s just picking at a croissant.
He tears off a piece and pops it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, ]
But, I mean, I guess I could screw the competition, if you really wanted me to.
[ His nose wrinkles as he pops another piece into his mouth.
This time, at least, he waits until he's swallowed to say, ]
Pointing at people is rude, you know.
This time, at least, he waits until he's swallowed to say, ]
Pointing at people is rude, you know.
[ He looks deeply unimpressed. ]
These are gonna be some fun crash course etiquette lessons, I can tell.
[ But he says it with a thread of good humor, despite the lackluster delivery.
He drinks one more mouthful of coffee before pushing back from the table. ]
Before you start getting people to stuff me into suits or sports jackets or whatever the hell, mind if I take a shower?
These are gonna be some fun crash course etiquette lessons, I can tell.
[ But he says it with a thread of good humor, despite the lackluster delivery.
He drinks one more mouthful of coffee before pushing back from the table. ]
Before you start getting people to stuff me into suits or sports jackets or whatever the hell, mind if I take a shower?
Not gonna join me, huh?
[ Though he casts it more as a joke as he's standing from the table. He heads over to the pile of clothes he left by the piano, scooping it all up in a messy ball and tucking it under an arm. ]
You'll know where I'll be if you change your mind.
[ Given how engrossed she looks in her work, though, he doubts he'll see her until he's ready to go.
He makes his way through the bedroom and into the ridiculously lavish bathroom sedately enough. Once the slides the door shut, though, he lets himself give into temptation and does a weird combination of fist pumping and aggressive dancing.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. He's making an obscene amount of money just to be eye candy.
When he's finally worked it out of his system, he shrugs out of the bathrobe to take a shower. He— probably takes a little longer than necessary, but proper water pressure and heat is a luxury he's missed dearly.
By the time he's stepped out, he's back in his ripped jeans and threadbare tank top, still slightly damp around the edges. He has his messenger bag slung over a shoulder, and he plops down at the dining table to pull on his boots. ]
Who's this guy you're trying to woo, anyway?
[ Though he casts it more as a joke as he's standing from the table. He heads over to the pile of clothes he left by the piano, scooping it all up in a messy ball and tucking it under an arm. ]
You'll know where I'll be if you change your mind.
[ Given how engrossed she looks in her work, though, he doubts he'll see her until he's ready to go.
He makes his way through the bedroom and into the ridiculously lavish bathroom sedately enough. Once the slides the door shut, though, he lets himself give into temptation and does a weird combination of fist pumping and aggressive dancing.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. He's making an obscene amount of money just to be eye candy.
When he's finally worked it out of his system, he shrugs out of the bathrobe to take a shower. He— probably takes a little longer than necessary, but proper water pressure and heat is a luxury he's missed dearly.
By the time he's stepped out, he's back in his ripped jeans and threadbare tank top, still slightly damp around the edges. He has his messenger bag slung over a shoulder, and he plops down at the dining table to pull on his boots. ]
Who's this guy you're trying to woo, anyway?
[ Despite every instinct and warning alarm blaring in his head, he stays.
Granted, he allows himself about a half hour of pacing in the living room, allows himself about an hour of marching toward the front door only to back away, allows himself another hour or so of silently beating himself up, reminding himself of how stupid he was to trust all of this.
He should've looked that gift horse in the mouth. He should've known that this was too good to be true. He should've known the other foot was going to drop, at some point.
He should've known.
But he didn't, and here he is now: a cheap whore trying to tackle the moral dilemma of knowing that he may have a part, no matter how small it is, in killing a man. The money is good – way too good – but he— can't. He can't do this. He can't just sit idly by while Gamora – or her sister, or whoever it is that might take over this job – murders someone.
But he can't leave, either – because— Gamora is hurt. And a large part of him feels compelled to help, to make sure that she's looked after. He doubts her "family" will do her that courtesy, judging by how that slimeball doctor had talked to her, judging by the way she had just barely tolerated it with seemingly practiced ease. Judging by the dozens and dozens of scars across Gamora's body.
Judging by the faint but genuine surprise on her face when she realized that he was standing in her corner.
This all sucks.
Even as she's passed out, Peter hovers, afraid to wander too far in case Gamora needs something. He ends up conking out on the chaise lounge in the bedroom. After what happened last night, he feels uncomfortable sharing a bed with Gamora – partly because he has no idea where the two of them stand, at the moment, but mostly because he worries that he might hurt her, might accidentally reach out and hit her fresh wound. The lounge is obviously too small for him to fully sprawl out, but he curls up on his hip under a spare blanket and manages to make do. He's slept in worse places under worse circumstances, after all.
He manages to get a couple hours to nap – Gamora had come in pretty late, and with all the time it took for the doctor to patch her up and for Peter to fight through his panic, the sun had nearly started to rise before he could find sleep. He expects a knock at the door to rouse him, signaling room service has arrived with breakfast.
Instead, the ringing of a cell phone startles him awake, and he sits upright on the lounge, scrubbing at his eyes. Sunlight filters in through a crack in the curtains, and he squints around the room by the dim light. Not his phone – his own is on the floor, the cracked screen dark. He looks over to the nightstand beside Gamora, seeing her phone buzzing and the screen casting a faint light.
Monica Ramirez, making that morning call Gamora expected. ]
Granted, he allows himself about a half hour of pacing in the living room, allows himself about an hour of marching toward the front door only to back away, allows himself another hour or so of silently beating himself up, reminding himself of how stupid he was to trust all of this.
He should've looked that gift horse in the mouth. He should've known that this was too good to be true. He should've known the other foot was going to drop, at some point.
He should've known.
But he didn't, and here he is now: a cheap whore trying to tackle the moral dilemma of knowing that he may have a part, no matter how small it is, in killing a man. The money is good – way too good – but he— can't. He can't do this. He can't just sit idly by while Gamora – or her sister, or whoever it is that might take over this job – murders someone.
But he can't leave, either – because— Gamora is hurt. And a large part of him feels compelled to help, to make sure that she's looked after. He doubts her "family" will do her that courtesy, judging by how that slimeball doctor had talked to her, judging by the way she had just barely tolerated it with seemingly practiced ease. Judging by the dozens and dozens of scars across Gamora's body.
Judging by the faint but genuine surprise on her face when she realized that he was standing in her corner.
This all sucks.
Even as she's passed out, Peter hovers, afraid to wander too far in case Gamora needs something. He ends up conking out on the chaise lounge in the bedroom. After what happened last night, he feels uncomfortable sharing a bed with Gamora – partly because he has no idea where the two of them stand, at the moment, but mostly because he worries that he might hurt her, might accidentally reach out and hit her fresh wound. The lounge is obviously too small for him to fully sprawl out, but he curls up on his hip under a spare blanket and manages to make do. He's slept in worse places under worse circumstances, after all.
He manages to get a couple hours to nap – Gamora had come in pretty late, and with all the time it took for the doctor to patch her up and for Peter to fight through his panic, the sun had nearly started to rise before he could find sleep. He expects a knock at the door to rouse him, signaling room service has arrived with breakfast.
Instead, the ringing of a cell phone startles him awake, and he sits upright on the lounge, scrubbing at his eyes. Sunlight filters in through a crack in the curtains, and he squints around the room by the dim light. Not his phone – his own is on the floor, the cracked screen dark. He looks over to the nightstand beside Gamora, seeing her phone buzzing and the screen casting a faint light.
Monica Ramirez, making that morning call Gamora expected. ]
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