[ Gamora is usually one who's comfortable to sit in silence, but it feels like so much is hanging between them, and she doesn't know how to breech that nearly palpable tension.
She's never felt so out of her depth before.
When Peter asks her how she's feeling, she opens her mouth for the automatic answer – "Fine." – but he cuts her off too quickly. The real answer doesn't come so easily, if only because she's so accustomed to hiding every vulnerability with the veracity of a feral animal.
[ Something warm and grateful settles in her chest, but suspicion and learned unease make it hard for her to immediately accept the offer.
Why is he asking? Why is he offering?
She doesn't have an immediate answer; partially because she doesn't know what she needs, but also because she still doesn't understand why he's being so kind.
Is this just how people are? Is he expecting something?
She shakes her head and rests her mug on her knee, rolling her palms along the sides again. ]
... Why are you still here?
[ She doesn't sound accusatory – not like she's holding a knife to his throat, demanding he explain himself. She just— doesn't recognize these gestures; she isn't used to magnanimity without strings. ]
[ She exhales on a small huff, something close to a laugh – even though it makes her wince ever so slightly. She steels herself for a moment, then gets carefully to her feet, setting her coffee on the breakfast cart.
She hesitates, and then finally: ]
... Thank you.
[ And she sounds genuine. She still isn't entirely sure what to make of Peter's presence, but for now... she's just grateful.
[ He gets to his feet when she does, instinctively reaching for her elbow to help steady her. He doesn't quite make contact, though he still hovers a little cautiously, ready to catch her if she stumbles. ]
I— um. Don't worry about it.
[ And he casts it awkwardly, in the face of that sincerity. He clears his throat, setting his coffee aside. ]
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She's never felt so out of her depth before.
When Peter asks her how she's feeling, she opens her mouth for the automatic answer – "Fine." – but he cuts her off too quickly. The real answer doesn't come so easily, if only because she's so accustomed to hiding every vulnerability with the veracity of a feral animal.
But— ]
I'm tired. The stitches are uncomfortable.
[ They hurt. ]
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This answer feels far more honest, and he's a little relieved for it, some of the tension falling away from his shoulders. ]
Is there anything I can do? Or, I mean, is there anything you need?
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Why is he asking? Why is he offering?
She doesn't have an immediate answer; partially because she doesn't know what she needs, but also because she still doesn't understand why he's being so kind.
Is this just how people are? Is he expecting something?
She shakes her head and rests her mug on her knee, rolling her palms along the sides again. ]
... Why are you still here?
[ She doesn't sound accusatory – not like she's holding a knife to his throat, demanding he explain himself. She just— doesn't recognize these gestures; she isn't used to magnanimity without strings. ]
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I told you already. It just— it didn't feel right, leaving you when you're hurt.
I may be an asshole, but I'm not a complete dick.
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She hesitates, and then finally: ]
... Thank you.
[ And she sounds genuine. She still isn't entirely sure what to make of Peter's presence, but for now... she's just grateful.
But also? She needs a shower. ]
no subject
I— um. Don't worry about it.
[ And he casts it awkwardly, in the face of that sincerity. He clears his throat, setting his coffee aside. ]
Do you need me to do anything?