[ Like he figured, the shit with Monica Ramirez is boring as shit.
It's a lot of small talk. A lot of "So, how's things?" only more politely, with fancier words. At the very least, the visit involves an early dinner and drinks, and Peter can blame his quietness on eating and drinking.
(He surreptitiously has to watch Gamora as she selects the proper utensils.
He doesn't get why anyone needs so many fucking forks.)
Still, to his credit, Peter does a decent job of acting like he didn't have his entire world thrown upside down last night. The physical stuff has always come easy, anyway, and he has no problem with keeping an arm curled around Gamora's waist, or with letting her arm loop through his. He manages to be charming and funny, though much like he had during last night's party, he defers to Gamora to do the heavy lifting in the conversation.
He positions himself on Gamora's injured side during their visit, helping to bear her weight as they walk through Monica's gallery of collected art pieces. Thankfully, they wander at a leisurely pace as Monica talks about each painting and sculpture – the whens and hows of her acquisitions, the artists responsible for them, and their not insignificant price tags. Peter tunes most of it out, watching Gamora from the corner of his eye for any signs of discomfort. He knows she must be in pain, but she's hiding it well.
By the time they've finished and made promises to meet again for lunch, it's pushing almost 8 o'clock. Hardly late, but it's felt like a long-ass evening. Peter's a little worried Gamora may have reached her limit.
They're walking back to Gamora's borrowed classic car (naturally, they parked it themselves, since the leather interior is stained with blood), and Peter lets out a long breath. ]
lmk if you'd rather do something different!
It's a lot of small talk. A lot of "So, how's things?" only more politely, with fancier words. At the very least, the visit involves an early dinner and drinks, and Peter can blame his quietness on eating and drinking.
(He surreptitiously has to watch Gamora as she selects the proper utensils.
He doesn't get why anyone needs so many fucking forks.)
Still, to his credit, Peter does a decent job of acting like he didn't have his entire world thrown upside down last night. The physical stuff has always come easy, anyway, and he has no problem with keeping an arm curled around Gamora's waist, or with letting her arm loop through his. He manages to be charming and funny, though much like he had during last night's party, he defers to Gamora to do the heavy lifting in the conversation.
He positions himself on Gamora's injured side during their visit, helping to bear her weight as they walk through Monica's gallery of collected art pieces. Thankfully, they wander at a leisurely pace as Monica talks about each painting and sculpture – the whens and hows of her acquisitions, the artists responsible for them, and their not insignificant price tags. Peter tunes most of it out, watching Gamora from the corner of his eye for any signs of discomfort. He knows she must be in pain, but she's hiding it well.
By the time they've finished and made promises to meet again for lunch, it's pushing almost 8 o'clock. Hardly late, but it's felt like a long-ass evening. Peter's a little worried Gamora may have reached her limit.
They're walking back to Gamora's borrowed classic car (naturally, they parked it themselves, since the leather interior is stained with blood), and Peter lets out a long breath. ]
Doing okay?