[ It's odd, but Gamora barely even registers Mantis and Drax when they pass by them in the hall. She doesn't pay them so much as a cursory glance, where normally she might find herself at least mildly perturbed by the looks on their faces (because that knowingness is somehow more confident than Gamora is about whatever it is hanging between her and Peter).
Fortunately, the captain's quarters aren't much farther than that. As usual, the messiness of Peter's room doesn't faze her – if only because he hasn't quite reached the point of too messy; she'd lived through the disaster that the Milano had become after housing them all in such enclosed space for so long.
She nods in vague acknowledgment as she heads over to his laundry. Picking through it doesn't take long, and she eventually ends up plucking out a black short-sleeved shirt, because it will do just as well as anything else. It's all going to be far too big for her, considering how broad Peter is, but it's undeniably better than the bloody, ripped thing she's still wearing.
Rubbing a hand briefly over her eyes (and definitely forgetting a "thank you"), she retreats to the private bathroom to change. She abandons her old shirt in favor of Peter's, and, as expected, it's huge on her, but the fabric feels soft and cool against her skin (because is she warmer than usual? No, surely not.). She looks at herself in the mirror for a moment, Peter's shirt hanging off of one of her shoulders. She tugs gently at the hem, fingers curling and uncurling in the material before she slips a hair tie from her pocket to secure her hair away from her face.
It's noticeably warmer in Peter's room than she remembers it being, and maybe she'll ask him to turn down the heat, but— instead, she's preoccupied with wandering back out to find him instead.
The temperature is far less of a concern.
She leaves the bathroom, at least getting as far as the doorframe before she just leans against it, looking out at Peter. ]
no subject
Fortunately, the captain's quarters aren't much farther than that. As usual, the messiness of Peter's room doesn't faze her – if only because he hasn't quite reached the point of too messy; she'd lived through the disaster that the Milano had become after housing them all in such enclosed space for so long.
She nods in vague acknowledgment as she heads over to his laundry. Picking through it doesn't take long, and she eventually ends up plucking out a black short-sleeved shirt, because it will do just as well as anything else. It's all going to be far too big for her, considering how broad Peter is, but it's undeniably better than the bloody, ripped thing she's still wearing.
Rubbing a hand briefly over her eyes (and definitely forgetting a "thank you"), she retreats to the private bathroom to change. She abandons her old shirt in favor of Peter's, and, as expected, it's huge on her, but the fabric feels soft and cool against her skin (because is she warmer than usual? No, surely not.). She looks at herself in the mirror for a moment, Peter's shirt hanging off of one of her shoulders. She tugs gently at the hem, fingers curling and uncurling in the material before she slips a hair tie from her pocket to secure her hair away from her face.
It's noticeably warmer in Peter's room than she remembers it being, and maybe she'll ask him to turn down the heat, but— instead, she's preoccupied with wandering back out to find him instead.
The temperature is far less of a concern.
She leaves the bathroom, at least getting as far as the doorframe before she just leans against it, looking out at Peter. ]
... Peter.
[ Her voice is a little quieter, but— ]
Come here.
[ Tentative, though not phrased as a question. ]