[ This time, Gamora doesn't try to resist as he tells her to sit, and she's careful about lowering herself into a seat, blinking glassy eyes down at her hands. That haze feels thicker, hotter, and she flexes her fingers, forces herself to do it slowly – trying to exercise control, trying not to shake with the pent-up energy that accompanies the heat. The fever hasn't made her sluggish, and if anything, she feels the need to do— anything. To fight? To touch? To rend something to pieces? To not think about the warmth spreading through her mind—? ]
Nothing's— wrong.
[ No, no, something has to be wrong, because she knows she wouldn't grab Peter like that, wouldn't speak to him like that. ]
no subject
Nothing's— wrong.
[ No, no, something has to be wrong, because she knows she wouldn't grab Peter like that, wouldn't speak to him like that. ]
It— just needs to burn itself out.