[ Concentration isn't coming to Gamora, even after Peter manages to lay her out on the small bunk provided in the infirmary. The room is spinning, swarmed by what looks like heat waves, though she knows it's simply the distortion in her own vision. She's trying to listen to Peter and the voices from the intercom, trying to focus on something more than how heavy her body is, how it feels like swimming through thick mud just to keep her eyes open.
She doesn't pick out much – "biological hazard," "med equipment and hazmat suits," "don't die."
Don't die.
A shuddery breath catches in her throat, but she manages to tilt her head up to look at Peter when he settles heavily into the chair beside her. She sees his hand, and she doesn't hesitate to reach for it in return, setting her fingers somewhat clumsily against his. ]
What's— going on?
[ Breathing. That much she can do.
(Whatever part of her that's coherent rages against how much of a struggle it is for her to so much as speak, and she's furious with herself, with her body's failure to push through this... sickness? Infection? This thing that's making her feel so damnably weak.
no subject
She doesn't pick out much – "biological hazard," "med equipment and hazmat suits," "don't die."
Don't die.
A shuddery breath catches in her throat, but she manages to tilt her head up to look at Peter when he settles heavily into the chair beside her. She sees his hand, and she doesn't hesitate to reach for it in return, setting her fingers somewhat clumsily against his. ]
What's— going on?
[ Breathing. That much she can do.
(Whatever part of her that's coherent rages against how much of a struggle it is for her to so much as speak, and she's furious with herself, with her body's failure to push through this... sickness? Infection? This thing that's making her feel so damnably weak.
She's better than this.) ]