[ Gamora lets him process, watching his face the whole time for each cue and flicker of emotion that rapidly progresses through various shades of incredulity and excitement.
And then—
"Okay."
Gamora leans back in her chair, pleased (and relieved). ]
[ And even if he tries to cast the response dully, like a kid who was just told he needed to visit a distantly related aunt, his current excitement over how much fucking money he’s getting at the end of the week undercuts it. ]
Just don’t go too crazy while you’re dressing me up like a Barbie doll. That’s all I ask.
[ He laughs a little, mirroring her smirk with a wider one of his own. ]
I just figured you didn't want me to go nuts with your credit card and come back with, like, armfuls of vintage records.
[ He pauses as he's reaching for the coffee kettle, pouring himself a mug. Now that he knows he's not about to be kicked out, he's forcing himself to slow down his eating – going from focused and determined to something approaching more civilized human levels. ]
So this is what you do then? You're like... like a business ambassador or something? You come in with peace offerings and make your way out with multi-million dollar deals?
I dunno how else you could sweep into town, drop, like, almost $20000 on some random guy, and not have to ask for permission first or explain yourself later.
[ And he says it lightly. Admittedly, he's sure there's a lot of work behind whatever it is they do, and if Gamora told him how much money were at stake, he'd sure his head would spin. Hell, he's still reeling from $15000, much less whatever exorbitant sums Gamora must deal with on a daily basis.
Not that Peter can entirely relate, having never had siblings and almost certainly having never had to worry about fucking up a deal worth way too much money to comprehend. He does at least understand dealing with unwanted competition. ]
Will it surprise you to hear I'm not concerned about your performance?
[ She wouldn't ask Peter to do this if she thought he'd embarrass her. He may not live in her world, but she doesn't anticipate him making her regret hiring him for this particular job. ]
[ And he does, in fact, cast her an incredulous look. ]
I can’t tell if that’s a sex joke or not.
[ Because he can perform well, but all bets are off when it comes to passing off as a yuppie.
Apparently he’s mostly had his fill of breakfast, having worked his way through eggs and sausage and picking at everything else available – the fruits and oatmeal and yogurt – and now he’s just picking at a croissant.
He tears off a piece and pops it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, ]
But, I mean, I guess I could screw the competition, if you really wanted me to.
[ Though he casts it more as a joke as he's standing from the table. He heads over to the pile of clothes he left by the piano, scooping it all up in a messy ball and tucking it under an arm. ]
You'll know where I'll be if you change your mind.
[ Given how engrossed she looks in her work, though, he doubts he'll see her until he's ready to go.
He makes his way through the bedroom and into the ridiculously lavish bathroom sedately enough. Once the slides the door shut, though, he lets himself give into temptation and does a weird combination of fist pumping and aggressive dancing.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. He's making an obscene amount of money just to be eye candy.
When he's finally worked it out of his system, he shrugs out of the bathrobe to take a shower. He— probably takes a little longer than necessary, but proper water pressure and heat is a luxury he's missed dearly.
By the time he's stepped out, he's back in his ripped jeans and threadbare tank top, still slightly damp around the edges. He has his messenger bag slung over a shoulder, and he plops down at the dining table to pull on his boots. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's not my money.
[ So she doesn't exactly care how it's spent. ]
For the amount of time I'm asking of you, I think that's fair.
no subject
Holy shit.
[ He has to be dreaming. Any second now, he’s going to wake up in his shitty apartment and this whole thing will have been some late night fantasy.
... Oh, but fuck it. It’s a good dream, even if it is one. ]
Okay. [ He can’t help but sound dazed and excited and incredulous, all at once. ] Then— yeah. I guess I’m yours.
no subject
And then—
"Okay."
Gamora leans back in her chair, pleased (and relieved). ]
Then after breakfast, we'll have to go shopping.
no subject
[ And even if he tries to cast the response dully, like a kid who was just told he needed to visit a distantly related aunt, his current excitement over how much fucking money he’s getting at the end of the week undercuts it. ]
Just don’t go too crazy while you’re dressing me up like a Barbie doll. That’s all I ask.
no subject
I won’t be dressing you. I’ll leave that to the shop attendants.
no subject
[ He finally shakes himself, picking up his utensils again to scoop up another forkful of scrambled eggs. ]
Can I at least count on you to help with the undressing?
no subject
Why do you think I'll be accompanying you?
[ That may or may not be a joke. ]
no subject
I just figured you didn't want me to go nuts with your credit card and come back with, like, armfuls of vintage records.
[ He pauses as he's reaching for the coffee kettle, pouring himself a mug. Now that he knows he's not about to be kicked out, he's forcing himself to slow down his eating – going from focused and determined to something approaching more civilized human levels. ]
So this is what you do then? You're like... like a business ambassador or something? You come in with peace offerings and make your way out with multi-million dollar deals?
no subject
I do my father's dirty work, yes.
[ ... which is also not a lie. ]
no subject
I dunno how else you could sweep into town, drop, like, almost $20000 on some random guy, and not have to ask for permission first or explain yourself later.
no subject
[ Again, the truth, though it's not something that she's necessarily— proud of it. ]
My father doesn't put any stipulations on my work, as long as I get the job done.
no subject
[ And he says it lightly. Admittedly, he's sure there's a lot of work behind whatever it is they do, and if Gamora told him how much money were at stake, he'd sure his head would spin. Hell, he's still reeling from $15000, much less whatever exorbitant sums Gamora must deal with on a daily basis.
He sips at his coffee, then ventures, ]
Is your sister working on this deal, too?
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She wants to be. She dislikes when our father gives me the... higher-profile jobs.
[ That's one way of putting it. ]
So she's usually looking for any opportunity to spot a fault in my methods.
no subject
[ A little sympathetically.
Not that Peter can entirely relate, having never had siblings and almost certainly having never had to worry about fucking up a deal worth way too much money to comprehend. He does at least understand dealing with unwanted competition. ]
Well, I’ll do my best to make sure you look good.
no subject
[ She wouldn't ask Peter to do this if she thought he'd embarrass her. He may not live in her world, but she doesn't anticipate him making her regret hiring him for this particular job. ]
no subject
I can’t tell if that’s a sex joke or not.
[ Because he can perform well, but all bets are off when it comes to passing off as a yuppie.
Apparently he’s mostly had his fill of breakfast, having worked his way through eggs and sausage and picking at everything else available – the fruits and oatmeal and yogurt – and now he’s just picking at a croissant.
He tears off a piece and pops it into his mouth. Around the mouthful, ]
But, I mean, I guess I could screw the competition, if you really wanted me to.
no subject
She points at him with her fork. ]
I don't need you to sleep with anyone, but I do need you to not speak with your mouth full.
no subject
This time, at least, he waits until he's swallowed to say, ]
Pointing at people is rude, you know.
no subject
[ At least she can't see the food in his mouth, this time. ]
no subject
These are gonna be some fun crash course etiquette lessons, I can tell.
[ But he says it with a thread of good humor, despite the lackluster delivery.
He drinks one more mouthful of coffee before pushing back from the table. ]
Before you start getting people to stuff me into suits or sports jackets or whatever the hell, mind if I take a shower?
no subject
Feel free.
[ She had her shower the night before, so for now? She's fine; she'll have to dress while Peter is washing up, get ready to go. ]
no subject
[ Though he casts it more as a joke as he's standing from the table. He heads over to the pile of clothes he left by the piano, scooping it all up in a messy ball and tucking it under an arm. ]
You'll know where I'll be if you change your mind.
[ Given how engrossed she looks in her work, though, he doubts he'll see her until he's ready to go.
He makes his way through the bedroom and into the ridiculously lavish bathroom sedately enough. Once the slides the door shut, though, he lets himself give into temptation and does a weird combination of fist pumping and aggressive dancing.
Holy fuck. Holy fuck. He's making an obscene amount of money just to be eye candy.
When he's finally worked it out of his system, he shrugs out of the bathrobe to take a shower. He— probably takes a little longer than necessary, but proper water pressure and heat is a luxury he's missed dearly.
By the time he's stepped out, he's back in his ripped jeans and threadbare tank top, still slightly damp around the edges. He has his messenger bag slung over a shoulder, and he plops down at the dining table to pull on his boots. ]
Who's this guy you're trying to woo, anyway?