He casts around frantically, looking for something that might give him inspiration to solve this new fucking crisis, and the only thing his gaze lands on is a nearby bed. It's something, he thinks, and Gamora clearly isn't in a good enough state to keep sitting up on her own.
He focuses as much as he can, wraps one arm around her shoulders, maneuvers his other arm under her knees, and he lifts her. A dangerous proposition, considering the way his own head swims, the way the deck tries to buck him off, but he grits his teeth and carries her to the bed. ]
Just— hang on, okay?
[ And he stumbles his way over to the intercom, catching himself once or twice on nearby furniture to keep from eating shit on the deck. It feels like a goddamn accomplishment once he finally reaches it, finally slams his palm against the button to answer the repeated hails. ]
Where the hell were you? [ Kraglin again, voice shrill with fear. ] We got Nova Corpsmen on the line tellin' us some nonsense about some kinda biological hazard, that we need to go through quarantine and decontamination procedures, here, and I keep tellin' 'em we ain't got nothin' that serious. But they don't believe me, and you been—
[ Peter snarls out, ] Shut up.
[ And the alien tone is enough to startle Kraglin into silence. ]
It's Gamora. [ Peter's voice is sharp, anger turning to panic, turning to something ugly that writhes in his chest, but he loses that edge with each word that spills from his mouth ] She's— she has this fever. The warehouse— there was some stuff, I think. She touched it, and— and I thought it'd be fine. I thought— we thought—
But it's not. It's really fucking bad, and— We're in the infirmary but— she's— just— what the fuck do I do? I don't—
[ Fuck, his head throbs, and why is it so fucking hard to string together words? He presses his brow against the bulkhead again, and he thinks he hears multiple voices, now, arguing or bickering or just talking, but they might as well be speaking in another language for all Peter can understand them. ]
Quill. [ Rocket this time, and Kraglin's voice in the background, speaking to someone else, it seems. ] We're puttin' the infirmary on lockdown, alright? Then some giant assholes with med equipment and hazmat suits are gonna come filin' in. All you two losers gotta do is sit tight, okay? Sit tight, and don't die. In that order. You got it, Quill?
[ Peter nods in response, which is stupid, and Rocket makes that perfectly clear when he barks out, ] Quill. Answer me.
Yeah. Yes. Okay.
[ The line cuts, then, and Peter makes his way back to Gamora's side, slumps down in a chair. He reaches for her hand. ]
no subject
He casts around frantically, looking for something that might give him inspiration to solve this new fucking crisis, and the only thing his gaze lands on is a nearby bed. It's something, he thinks, and Gamora clearly isn't in a good enough state to keep sitting up on her own.
He focuses as much as he can, wraps one arm around her shoulders, maneuvers his other arm under her knees, and he lifts her. A dangerous proposition, considering the way his own head swims, the way the deck tries to buck him off, but he grits his teeth and carries her to the bed. ]
Just— hang on, okay?
[ And he stumbles his way over to the intercom, catching himself once or twice on nearby furniture to keep from eating shit on the deck. It feels like a goddamn accomplishment once he finally reaches it, finally slams his palm against the button to answer the repeated hails. ]
Where the hell were you? [ Kraglin again, voice shrill with fear. ] We got Nova Corpsmen on the line tellin' us some nonsense about some kinda biological hazard, that we need to go through quarantine and decontamination procedures, here, and I keep tellin' 'em we ain't got nothin' that serious. But they don't believe me, and you been—
[ Peter snarls out, ] Shut up.
[ And the alien tone is enough to startle Kraglin into silence. ]
It's Gamora. [ Peter's voice is sharp, anger turning to panic, turning to something ugly that writhes in his chest, but he loses that edge with each word that spills from his mouth ] She's— she has this fever. The warehouse— there was some stuff, I think. She touched it, and— and I thought it'd be fine. I thought— we thought—
But it's not. It's really fucking bad, and— We're in the infirmary but— she's— just— what the fuck do I do? I don't—
[ Fuck, his head throbs, and why is it so fucking hard to string together words? He presses his brow against the bulkhead again, and he thinks he hears multiple voices, now, arguing or bickering or just talking, but they might as well be speaking in another language for all Peter can understand them. ]
Quill. [ Rocket this time, and Kraglin's voice in the background, speaking to someone else, it seems. ] We're puttin' the infirmary on lockdown, alright? Then some giant assholes with med equipment and hazmat suits are gonna come filin' in. All you two losers gotta do is sit tight, okay? Sit tight, and don't die. In that order. You got it, Quill?
[ Peter nods in response, which is stupid, and Rocket makes that perfectly clear when he barks out, ] Quill. Answer me.
Yeah. Yes. Okay.
[ The line cuts, then, and Peter makes his way back to Gamora's side, slumps down in a chair. He reaches for her hand. ]