[ Despite every instinct and warning alarm blaring in his head, he stays.
Granted, he allows himself about a half hour of pacing in the living room, allows himself about an hour of marching toward the front door only to back away, allows himself another hour or so of silently beating himself up, reminding himself of how stupid he was to trust all of this.
He should've looked that gift horse in the mouth. He should've known that this was too good to be true. He should've known the other foot was going to drop, at some point.
He should've known.
But he didn't, and here he is now: a cheap whore trying to tackle the moral dilemma of knowing that he may have a part, no matter how small it is, in killing a man. The money is good – way too good – but he— can't. He can't do this. He can't just sit idly by while Gamora – or her sister, or whoever it is that might take over this job – murders someone.
But he can't leave, either – because— Gamora is hurt. And a large part of him feels compelled to help, to make sure that she's looked after. He doubts her "family" will do her that courtesy, judging by how that slimeball doctor had talked to her, judging by the way she had just barely tolerated it with seemingly practiced ease. Judging by the dozens and dozens of scars across Gamora's body.
Judging by the faint but genuine surprise on her face when she realized that he was standing in her corner.
This all sucks.
Even as she's passed out, Peter hovers, afraid to wander too far in case Gamora needs something. He ends up conking out on the chaise lounge in the bedroom. After what happened last night, he feels uncomfortable sharing a bed with Gamora – partly because he has no idea where the two of them stand, at the moment, but mostly because he worries that he might hurt her, might accidentally reach out and hit her fresh wound. The lounge is obviously too small for him to fully sprawl out, but he curls up on his hip under a spare blanket and manages to make do. He's slept in worse places under worse circumstances, after all.
He manages to get a couple hours to nap – Gamora had come in pretty late, and with all the time it took for the doctor to patch her up and for Peter to fight through his panic, the sun had nearly started to rise before he could find sleep. He expects a knock at the door to rouse him, signaling room service has arrived with breakfast.
Instead, the ringing of a cell phone startles him awake, and he sits upright on the lounge, scrubbing at his eyes. Sunlight filters in through a crack in the curtains, and he squints around the room by the dim light. Not his phone – his own is on the floor, the cracked screen dark. He looks over to the nightstand beside Gamora, seeing her phone buzzing and the screen casting a faint light.
Monica Ramirez, making that morning call Gamora expected. ]
[ Gamora expects that she'll find an empty room in the morning. Peter had already stayed longer last night than he'd intended, and he didn't owe her anything now. He had his fees, and knowing what he does about who Gamora is, he should be running for the hills. Gamora is dangerous, and no matter how much she may want to leave her life behind, she's trapped for the time being; she has no choice but to live in a bloody, violent world, until she can get out with some guarantee that she won't be murdered within a week. But even then, even if she can escape, that won't erase everything Gamora has done.
The reality of her crimes should be more than enough to scare anyone away.
(And no matter what that small part of her wants, no matter how he's made her feel (he's good at his job, after all), she could never blame him for wantiing to get as far away from her as possible.
It's in his best interests not to stick around.)
Gamora sleeps through the night thanks to the painkillers Maw left for her. She doesn't wake once or stir when Peter paces the rest of the bungalow. If she were more coherent, she might have been shaken by how readily she allowed herself to be so deeply unconscious around Peter without the ingrained paranoia driving her to stay alert with any potential threat; she's been vulnerable with him in innuerable ways, and a drug-induced slumber is only one of those.
A persistent ringing finally disturbs her deep sleep. Gamora jolts awake with a sharp inhale, jerking upright before her body seems to remember the trauma of the night before, and she curls reflexively around herself with a hiss. She presses a palm over the bandages on her side, almost completely unaware of Peter's presence for a few, drawn-out moments as she soothes away the pain radiating from her stitches.
Right now, everything hurts, not just the gunshot. Bruises throb and ache all over, and a deep exhaustion runs through every single one of her muscles, but—
Her cell phone.
She composes herself quickly, fumbling over for her phone before the call can go to voicemail. In the same moment that she answers, she sees Peter on the chaise.
That composure flies right out the window as surprise paints itself over her face. An embarrassing heartbeat or two goes by, before she finally shakes herself enough to speak: ]
This is Gamora.
[ Gamora is greeted by a familiar feminine voice, cheerful despite the early hour. Monica prattles on about how lovely it was to meet Gamora the night before (which already feels like ages ago), and she'd love the opportunity to have Gamora over for tea, to share some of her more recent pieces in her collection; Gamora knows well enough that it's only a way for Monica to pry into what she might be able to buy from Thanos to add to her personal hoard.
Gamora doesn't care.
She looks over at Peter again as Monica keeps chattering away, and confliction wars in Gamora's eyes. Part of her wants to call this off (what?), and part of her is almost unsettled dealing with Monica with Peter present, given that he now knows the reality of Gamora's dealings with Ramirez. But—
What are her options, really? ]
... This evening would be fine. Yes. I'll see you then.
[ And Gamora hangs up on Monica before the woman can properly say her goodbyes. Careful, uncertain, she drops her phone to the bedspread, watching Peter instead. ]
[ Gamora seems to wake around the same time he does, if not a little before, and he's still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he hears her hiss of pain.
He winces to himself, pushing the blanket away from where it had pooled in his lap, but she recovers after a moment or two. (She's probably used to blocking out this sort of pain, he thinks with an ugly pang. She would have to be, with all those scars.)
The ringing stops, and Peter glances up, catching Gamora's gaze at apparently the exact wrong second. He freezes just as she does, awkward in the face of her obvious surprise. She's probably wondering what the fuck he's still doing here. Hell, Peter is still wondering what the fuck he's still doing here. So at least they can keep each other company, in that respect.
She finally starts speaking, and Peter rubs at the back of his neck as he sits up fully, glancing around the room to keep from staring at Gamora. Even by the dim light, he could see the collection of bruises on her exposed skin, and he knows that wound at her side isn't doing her any favors. After a few seconds, Peter gets the feeling he can't really get away with just— sitting around, so he decides to make himself useful.
He retrieves a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, setting it beside Gamora silently. Monica Ramirez's voice is faint from the phone, but recognizable, and his lips thin into an unhappy line. He holds his tongue, though, as he opens up the curtains, admitting the early morning light into the room.
He hovers by the back door, leaning against the frame and looking sightlessly at the patio. When her conversation ends, he looks back to Gamora, flinching a little when he realizes her gaze is already on him.
He fidgets, trying to think of something to say. It takes a few (long, awkward, deafeningly silent moments of floundering, but he finally manages, ]
[ He brings her water, and even though he's done it before while he's been here, it startles her again now.
(Why is he being so kind to her?)
He even asks— how she's doing. ]
Fine.
[ The practiced answer, the one she always gives after a mistake, no matter how much damage she might have sustained.
She starts to scoot towards the edge of the bed, but she doesn't entirely manage to bite back her wince, and she only realizes she was holding her breath when she lets her feet touch the floor; she exhales long and shaking. She glances back up at Peter, watching him with that same cautious light in her eyes. ]
[ He looks wholly unconvinced by that response and makes no attempt to hide it. His doubts are completely founded, it seems, when she swings her leg over the edge of the bed to sit up properly, hesitant and unsteady.
When she speaks, he fidgets again, rolling out his shoulders and glancing away. ]
Yeah.
[ Quietly, a little gruffly. He clearly can't wrap his head around it, himself. ]
It just— didn't feel right, leaving when you're hurt.
[ He glances up at her briefly, almost a little reluctantly, before shrugging a little in response – another awkward rise of his shoulders, a small shake of his head. A reply that can either be Don't mention it, or It's whatever.
He runs a hand through his hair, curls made unruly from sleep and the countless number of times he had run his fingers through his hair already over the course of the night.
When she cuts herself off, he frowns a little, a little caught off-guard by her uncertainty. It's clear enough that he's not the only one feeling wrong-footed about this whole fucked up thing, and that's something of a relief, if he's honest. At least they both realize how fucking weird this all is.
But he sees her wince, and his lips press into a thin line. ]
[ And she can’t afford that. She has to finish this job properly, she has to produce results.
(And part of her is terrified about the questions that might be asked the longer Peter is around her. The less he’s mixed up in all of this, the better.) ]
[ His jaw clenches briefly, a muscle at the hinge jumping with it. ]
Considering the kinda state you’re in, I don’t see how more sleep would hurt anything.
[ With more of the morning light falling into the room, he can better see the bruises blossoming across her skin, and while the bandage at her side covers the worst of the damage, he knows that gunshot wound can’t possibly be easy to deal with.
She’s being stubborn, is what he decides. Or paranoid. Or both. He’s not entirely sure. But it’s obvious enough to him that rest is the one and only thing she needs right now.
His lips part to express as much, but a polite, familiar knock sounds at the door. Peter’s expression crumples with annoyance for a second, and he takes a second to compose himself, to double-check his clothing. No blood fell on him from tending to Gamora’s wounds last night, thankfully, and some of the time he spent pacing the bungalow last night was also spent in wiping blood off doorknobs and tile. It shouldn’t be too obvious what they dealt with, earlier that morning. ]
Hang on.
[ And he accompanies the command with a gesture that says, Stay there.
He forces a polite smile onto his face as he answers the door. Instead of letting the guy wheel the cart all the way to the dining area, Peter instead stops the guy in the entryway, tipping him a couple bucks to send him on his way.
He hovers in the doorway to the bedroom again, not quite committing to wheeling the cart inside. ]
[ The sudden knock makes Gamora startle upright again – which just earns a wince before she can fight it down. It's not the wrong kind of familiar that might make her assume her sister or another of her father's lackeys might be at the door, so as reluctant as she is to listen to Peter, she's too tired to argue about something pointless.
(If she thought it was someone sent by Thanos, she wouldn't be so willing to stay seated on the mattress.)
But she can mentally track the exchange between Peter and the bellhop, relaxing more than she expected she might when the door closes again.
Her somewhat distant gaze refocuses when Peter appears at the door, and after a second of consideration, she nods. ]
I should.
[ Especially if she does capitulate enough to take another of the sedatives.
(An empty stomach probably wouldn't go well with the medication.)
She's careful about getting to her feet, slow-going, but she manages to keep the discomfort off of her face as she steadies herself with fingertips on the nightstand. Apparently, she's determined to try moving around. ]
[ Peter’s not entirely sure how to respond to that, so he just— doesn’t. It’s not that he’s in denial, exactly, especially considering the heated conversation they had gotten into last night before the doctor arrived, but he has no idea how to begin reconciling any of it.
Other than, you know. It sucks, both from a moral standpoint and a personal standpoint. The situation sucks, and it’s so illegal, and holy fuck, it’s the wrong thing to do – and there really isn’t any way to get around it.
He pulls the cart closer to the bed, handing Gamora one of the plates – the same fare as the past few days. He’s not too sure what you’re supposed to eat after blood loss, but he figures it’s better to eat anything than nothing. Eventually, he takes his own plate, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her – though maybe not as closely as he would’ve allowed himself before. ]
Everything cool?
[ And he nods toward the phone as he sets his plate in his lap. He remembers the doctor’s half-assurance, half-threat about Gamora’s sister arriving to help. He remembers the phone conversation between the two of them, the first night he was here; he doesn’t imagine Gamora is looking forward to this reunion, if it happens. ]
[ There's a part of Gamora that's grateful Peter doesn't comment; the reality is that there's nothing to be said that could truly change her predicament. She— is trying to get out, but she's trying to do that alive, and it's not as easy as picking up everything she owns and fleeing across the country.
It's going to be far more complex and difficult, in practice.
She doesn't realize how much her body needs the food until her stomach gurgles upon seeing the trays of food. Trying to recover from an injury like this takes up a lot of resources, and she needs to replace at least some of that energy. She accepts the plate from Peter along with a fork (taking notice of the small addition of space between them), before she starts taking bites of her breakfast. Mid-chew, she follows Peter's gaze to her phone, and her mouth sets in a thin, displeased line. Everything is not "cool," but it's also out of Gamora's hands now. ]
For now.
[ She sighs sharply, nudging at an egg with her fork. ]
I expect I'll have company sooner rather than later.
[ Gamora nudges her food around her plate a little more than she's resumed eating. She doesn't like the idea that she might have to leave early (even if examining the reason makes her uncomfortable), but— she finds herself wanting more time. ]
I'm not sure. It depends on how things are handled, but I may need to stay to continue interacting with the Ramirez's at first.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ilu
lmk if you'd rather do smth else!
Granted, he allows himself about a half hour of pacing in the living room, allows himself about an hour of marching toward the front door only to back away, allows himself another hour or so of silently beating himself up, reminding himself of how stupid he was to trust all of this.
He should've looked that gift horse in the mouth. He should've known that this was too good to be true. He should've known the other foot was going to drop, at some point.
He should've known.
But he didn't, and here he is now: a cheap whore trying to tackle the moral dilemma of knowing that he may have a part, no matter how small it is, in killing a man. The money is good – way too good – but he— can't. He can't do this. He can't just sit idly by while Gamora – or her sister, or whoever it is that might take over this job – murders someone.
But he can't leave, either – because— Gamora is hurt. And a large part of him feels compelled to help, to make sure that she's looked after. He doubts her "family" will do her that courtesy, judging by how that slimeball doctor had talked to her, judging by the way she had just barely tolerated it with seemingly practiced ease. Judging by the dozens and dozens of scars across Gamora's body.
Judging by the faint but genuine surprise on her face when she realized that he was standing in her corner.
This all sucks.
Even as she's passed out, Peter hovers, afraid to wander too far in case Gamora needs something. He ends up conking out on the chaise lounge in the bedroom. After what happened last night, he feels uncomfortable sharing a bed with Gamora – partly because he has no idea where the two of them stand, at the moment, but mostly because he worries that he might hurt her, might accidentally reach out and hit her fresh wound. The lounge is obviously too small for him to fully sprawl out, but he curls up on his hip under a spare blanket and manages to make do. He's slept in worse places under worse circumstances, after all.
He manages to get a couple hours to nap – Gamora had come in pretty late, and with all the time it took for the doctor to patch her up and for Peter to fight through his panic, the sun had nearly started to rise before he could find sleep. He expects a knock at the door to rouse him, signaling room service has arrived with breakfast.
Instead, the ringing of a cell phone startles him awake, and he sits upright on the lounge, scrubbing at his eyes. Sunlight filters in through a crack in the curtains, and he squints around the room by the dim light. Not his phone – his own is on the floor, the cracked screen dark. He looks over to the nightstand beside Gamora, seeing her phone buzzing and the screen casting a faint light.
Monica Ramirez, making that morning call Gamora expected. ]
i love this wholeass trainwreck
[ Gamora expects that she'll find an empty room in the morning. Peter had already stayed longer last night than he'd intended, and he didn't owe her anything now. He had his fees, and knowing what he does about who Gamora is, he should be running for the hills. Gamora is dangerous, and no matter how much she may want to leave her life behind, she's trapped for the time being; she has no choice but to live in a bloody, violent world, until she can get out with some guarantee that she won't be murdered within a week. But even then, even if she can escape, that won't erase everything Gamora has done.
The reality of her crimes should be more than enough to scare anyone away.
(And no matter what that small part of her wants, no matter how he's made her feel (he's good at his job, after all), she could never blame him for wantiing to get as far away from her as possible.
It's in his best interests not to stick around.)
Gamora sleeps through the night thanks to the painkillers Maw left for her. She doesn't wake once or stir when Peter paces the rest of the bungalow. If she were more coherent, she might have been shaken by how readily she allowed herself to be so deeply unconscious around Peter without the ingrained paranoia driving her to stay alert with any potential threat; she's been vulnerable with him in innuerable ways, and a drug-induced slumber is only one of those.
A persistent ringing finally disturbs her deep sleep. Gamora jolts awake with a sharp inhale, jerking upright before her body seems to remember the trauma of the night before, and she curls reflexively around herself with a hiss. She presses a palm over the bandages on her side, almost completely unaware of Peter's presence for a few, drawn-out moments as she soothes away the pain radiating from her stitches.
Right now, everything hurts, not just the gunshot. Bruises throb and ache all over, and a deep exhaustion runs through every single one of her muscles, but—
Her cell phone.
She composes herself quickly, fumbling over for her phone before the call can go to voicemail. In the same moment that she answers, she sees Peter on the chaise.
That composure flies right out the window as surprise paints itself over her face. An embarrassing heartbeat or two goes by, before she finally shakes herself enough to speak: ]
This is Gamora.
[ Gamora is greeted by a familiar feminine voice, cheerful despite the early hour. Monica prattles on about how lovely it was to meet Gamora the night before (which already feels like ages ago), and she'd love the opportunity to have Gamora over for tea, to share some of her more recent pieces in her collection; Gamora knows well enough that it's only a way for Monica to pry into what she might be able to buy from Thanos to add to her personal hoard.
Gamora doesn't care.
She looks over at Peter again as Monica keeps chattering away, and confliction wars in Gamora's eyes. Part of her wants to call this off (what?), and part of her is almost unsettled dealing with Monica with Peter present, given that he now knows the reality of Gamora's dealings with Ramirez. But—
What are her options, really? ]
... This evening would be fine. Yes. I'll see you then.
[ And Gamora hangs up on Monica before the woman can properly say her goodbyes. Careful, uncertain, she drops her phone to the bedspread, watching Peter instead. ]
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He winces to himself, pushing the blanket away from where it had pooled in his lap, but she recovers after a moment or two. (She's probably used to blocking out this sort of pain, he thinks with an ugly pang. She would have to be, with all those scars.)
The ringing stops, and Peter glances up, catching Gamora's gaze at apparently the exact wrong second. He freezes just as she does, awkward in the face of her obvious surprise. She's probably wondering what the fuck he's still doing here. Hell, Peter is still wondering what the fuck he's still doing here. So at least they can keep each other company, in that respect.
She finally starts speaking, and Peter rubs at the back of his neck as he sits up fully, glancing around the room to keep from staring at Gamora. Even by the dim light, he could see the collection of bruises on her exposed skin, and he knows that wound at her side isn't doing her any favors. After a few seconds, Peter gets the feeling he can't really get away with just— sitting around, so he decides to make himself useful.
He retrieves a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, setting it beside Gamora silently. Monica Ramirez's voice is faint from the phone, but recognizable, and his lips thin into an unhappy line. He holds his tongue, though, as he opens up the curtains, admitting the early morning light into the room.
He hovers by the back door, leaning against the frame and looking sightlessly at the patio. When her conversation ends, he looks back to Gamora, flinching a little when he realizes her gaze is already on him.
He fidgets, trying to think of something to say. It takes a few (long, awkward, deafeningly silent moments of floundering, but he finally manages, ]
How are you feeling?
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(Why is he being so kind to her?)
He even asks— how she's doing. ]
Fine.
[ The practiced answer, the one she always gives after a mistake, no matter how much damage she might have sustained.
She starts to scoot towards the edge of the bed, but she doesn't entirely manage to bite back her wince, and she only realizes she was holding her breath when she lets her feet touch the floor; she exhales long and shaking. She glances back up at Peter, watching him with that same cautious light in her eyes. ]
... You stayed.
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When she speaks, he fidgets again, rolling out his shoulders and glancing away. ]
Yeah.
[ Quietly, a little gruffly. He clearly can't wrap his head around it, himself. ]
It just— didn't feel right, leaving when you're hurt.
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"Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"You should go."
She reaches for the water, carefully unscrewing the cap and allowing herself a moment as she takes a few sips.
Finally: ]
... Thank you.
[ The words feel awkward and unfamiliar in her mouth – because it's rare she's genuine in being grateful for something. ]
Are you—
[ She pauses, frowning at her own uncertainty and how hard it is for her to articulate anything.
(When was the last time she was actually awkward around someone?)
She huffs out a frustrated sigh, but even that makes her wince. ]
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He runs a hand through his hair, curls made unruly from sleep and the countless number of times he had run his fingers through his hair already over the course of the night.
When she cuts herself off, he frowns a little, a little caught off-guard by her uncertainty. It's clear enough that he's not the only one feeling wrong-footed about this whole fucked up thing, and that's something of a relief, if he's honest. At least they both realize how fucking weird this all is.
But he sees her wince, and his lips press into a thin line. ]
Should take another one of those painkillers?
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[ Peter probably has a point, but— ]
If I do, it will probably make me sleep again.
[ And she can’t afford that. She has to finish this job properly, she has to produce results.
(And part of her is terrified about the questions that might be asked the longer Peter is around her. The less he’s mixed up in all of this, the better.) ]
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Considering the kinda state you’re in, I don’t see how more sleep would hurt anything.
[ With more of the morning light falling into the room, he can better see the bruises blossoming across her skin, and while the bandage at her side covers the worst of the damage, he knows that gunshot wound can’t possibly be easy to deal with.
She’s being stubborn, is what he decides. Or paranoid. Or both. He’s not entirely sure. But it’s obvious enough to him that rest is the one and only thing she needs right now.
His lips part to express as much, but a polite, familiar knock sounds at the door. Peter’s expression crumples with annoyance for a second, and he takes a second to compose himself, to double-check his clothing. No blood fell on him from tending to Gamora’s wounds last night, thankfully, and some of the time he spent pacing the bungalow last night was also spent in wiping blood off doorknobs and tile. It shouldn’t be too obvious what they dealt with, earlier that morning. ]
Hang on.
[ And he accompanies the command with a gesture that says, Stay there.
He forces a polite smile onto his face as he answers the door. Instead of letting the guy wheel the cart all the way to the dining area, Peter instead stops the guy in the entryway, tipping him a couple bucks to send him on his way.
He hovers in the doorway to the bedroom again, not quite committing to wheeling the cart inside. ]
Feeling up to eating anything?
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(If she thought it was someone sent by Thanos, she wouldn't be so willing to stay seated on the mattress.)
But she can mentally track the exchange between Peter and the bellhop, relaxing more than she expected she might when the door closes again.
Her somewhat distant gaze refocuses when Peter appears at the door, and after a second of consideration, she nods. ]
I should.
[ Especially if she does capitulate enough to take another of the sedatives.
(An empty stomach probably wouldn't go well with the medication.)
She's careful about getting to her feet, slow-going, but she manages to keep the discomfort off of her face as she steadies herself with fingertips on the nightstand. Apparently, she's determined to try moving around. ]
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Gamora surprises him by standing, though, and he lets out a startled, ]
Hey, whoa—
[ As he moves away from the cart, heading toward her. ]
Sit back down, man. You're gonna hurt yourself worse.
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I can handle it.
[ But she slowly, reluctantly lowers herself back to the bed with a frown. ]
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I honestly don't get how it is that I'm the only one around here who seems to realize that you got shot.
[ He says it as he's turning back to the breakfast cart, pulling it into the room. ]
I seriously feel like I'm going crazy.
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It's not unusual, in this line of work.
[ That whole... killing people deal. ]
We're just expected to push through it.
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Other than, you know. It sucks, both from a moral standpoint and a personal standpoint. The situation sucks, and it’s so illegal, and holy fuck, it’s the wrong thing to do – and there really isn’t any way to get around it.
He pulls the cart closer to the bed, handing Gamora one of the plates – the same fare as the past few days. He’s not too sure what you’re supposed to eat after blood loss, but he figures it’s better to eat anything than nothing. Eventually, he takes his own plate, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her – though maybe not as closely as he would’ve allowed himself before. ]
Everything cool?
[ And he nods toward the phone as he sets his plate in his lap. He remembers the doctor’s half-assurance, half-threat about Gamora’s sister arriving to help. He remembers the phone conversation between the two of them, the first night he was here; he doesn’t imagine Gamora is looking forward to this reunion, if it happens. ]
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It's going to be far more complex and difficult, in practice.
She doesn't realize how much her body needs the food until her stomach gurgles upon seeing the trays of food. Trying to recover from an injury like this takes up a lot of resources, and she needs to replace at least some of that energy. She accepts the plate from Peter along with a fork (taking notice of the small addition of space between them), before she starts taking bites of her breakfast. Mid-chew, she follows Peter's gaze to her phone, and her mouth sets in a thin, displeased line. Everything is not "cool," but it's also out of Gamora's hands now. ]
For now.
[ She sighs sharply, nudging at an egg with her fork. ]
I expect I'll have company sooner rather than later.
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[ He says it around a small mouthful of food. (His late evening and early morning spent panicking has also, apparently, left him a little hungry.) ]
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Yes.
She'll be here to... finish the job.
[ To kill a man. ]
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God, this sucks.
But at length, he nods, unsure of what to say – unsure if he wants to say anything.
Slowly, he eats another mouthful of eggs, just to occupy himself for a few precious seconds. Then, ]
Does that mean you're heading home?
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I'm not sure. It depends on how things are handled, but I may need to stay to continue interacting with the Ramirez's at first.
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You, um. Probably need me to get out of your hair, huh. If your sister's coming.
[ It'd be the logical thing, after all, and god knows he should probably already be gone. ]
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... I would feel... better, if she didn't see you.
[ For Peter's sake.
Her frown deepens as she considers their predicament a little more closely— ]
But if Maw knows you're here, it won't make a difference.
[ She glances over at him, cautious, almost apologetic. ]
I don't want you on their radar.
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Am I not already? I mean, Doctor Dickbag already knows I'm here, like you said.
[ So whatever "being on their radar" means in the long run, right now, he's pretty sure he's already a small blip. ]
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[ She doesn't look pleased by that reality, if only because any attention Peter may have of Thanos's means he's not as safe as Gamora would like. ]
In that case, you do not— need to rush out.
[ The last offer is a little stilted, awkward, even as she tries covering it by clearing her throat and taking another bite of eggs. ]
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wtf i didn't get a notif for this
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