[ Despite everything, that finally startles a faint smile out of Gamora. As usual, she hides it with a with from her water before setting the bottle on the table and straightening up slowly. ]
That won't be a concern for you.
[ She keeps her folded dress against her side, and she nods towards the bedroom. ]
[ The automatic answer. She's fine to a point, and surely better than she was yesterday, but she needs to clean her wound and check the stitches. And probably take something to finally deal with her pain. ]
[ It’s hard for Gamora to just accept the help; it’s hard for her to genuinely believe he wants to help, or what he thinks he can gain from it. But it’s becoming more and more apparent that she’s bringing this upheaval into his life and he isn’t taking the easiest out by just disappearing or finding a way to betray her. He’s just... doing this for her.
He’s choosing to take care of her.
(Why? She’s done so many atrocious things in her life, in service of her father. She’s killed so many people, hurt so many more. But Peter has consistently continued to treat her like she deserves this kindness.
Maybe she doesn’t understand it yet, but a small, treasonous part of her wants to accept it.)
Tension slowly ebbs from her shoulders, but her eyes stay fixed on Peter’s face – still that look of a wild animal, reluctantly retracting its claws. ]
You don’t have to.
[ She repeats herself, but she sounds less defensive, less mistrusting. ]
[ Another beat of quiet, another second of hesitation, and finally, Gamora nods. She lets her arm relax, stops holding her dress to shield the faint stain of red that’s bleeding into her slip.
He was going to see it when they reach the bedroom, anyway. ]
But still, she allows Peter to steer her to the bedroom and the bathroom, and when she has the chance, she leans against the sink with a shuddering sigh. ]
It's not bad now, but it could get worse, the more you push yourself.
[ He leaves her to lean against the counter, turning toward the shower to draw the water. After a second of hesitation, though, he starts to unfasten the rest of the buttons of his shirt – just enough that he can easily pull it up and over his head, leaving him in his undershirt. ]
[ She watches him, a little startled as he starts to undo his shirt, but, well, blood could easily get on the white fabric – and that's a pain to wash out. She reaches for the hem of her slip, tugging it carefully higher, but trying to pull it over her head makes her grimace. She glances up at Peter, hesitating, before she finally asks: ]
[ She doesn't have to finish asking, because he understands without further prompting.
He takes hold of the silk, waiting for her to readjust before he gently pulls the fabric up and over her head, setting the slip away on the counter. He frowns at the dressing, an angry blotch of red standing out against the white material as a testament to how much she pushed herself tonight.
A muscle along the line of his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth, angry at himself for not noticing sooner. ]
You can lean against me in the shower.
[ He says it as he's pulling off his undershirt, adding it to the growing pile on the bathroom counter. ]
[ Gamora looks ready to protest, but Peter is already tugging off his undershirt.
She's getting too tired to keep arguing.
Instead, she nods, and just hooks her thumbs into her panties, pushing them down and allowing them to drop to the floor. She's obviously not about to start being shy around Peter now, considering how much he's seen of her already, but— it's different in this context. She gently peels the dressing away from her side, finally inspecting the damage she'd done. The stitches appear to have held, but the flesh that had been healing around them is slowly seeping blood – again, not much, but enough to have bled through the bandages over the course of the last 24 hours.
She discards the bandages in a small trashcan (reminding herself to toss the bag), before she glances back to Peter, stepping forward to test the water's temperature. ]
[ He pauses, readying himself to argue in case Gamora continues to insist that she's fine and that she can manage and that she's done more with worse.
He has his rebuttals all queued up. He'll probably start with No, you're not, follow up with yeah, probably, but you shouldn't and you're gonna slip and fall and crack your head open.
Luckily, though, he doesn't have to offer any of that up, and when she finishes undressing, so does he – and he makes quick work of it, thanks to a great deal of practice. In a different moment, he'd be more mindful to fold his clothes properly, in deference to how expensive as fuck they are. At this very second, though, taking proper care of the clothing Gamora bought him is the last thing on his mind. ]
[ She steps into the water, though she's careful to prevent the spray from pounding directly on her side. Instead, it runs down her shoulders, lower to lightly rinse over the bloody skin. She leans in to wet her face, soaking her hair to push it all back and away. It feels good after the long, demanding day, and what's left of her tension starts to bleed out of her tightly coiled muscles.
Unconsciously, her body sways slightly under the spray as she finally relaxes. ]
[ Peter steps in not too long after her, carefully taking hold of one of her elbows to help steady her as she sways. ]
Easy.
[ He murmurs it over the noise of water hitting tile. Water falls over his head, and he pauses briefly to push his hair back out of his face, to appreciate the heat of it along his skin. (A few days with appropriate water pressure and heat has been fucking heavenly.) ]
You're sure you've got nothing tomorrow? 'Cause you seriously need to give yourself time to recuperate.
[ She allows herself to lean into Peter with a slow exhale, her eyes closing for a moment. ]
As far as I know.
[ And if Monica contacts her, Gamora should be able to push out a meeting for a day or so — which hopefully might give Yondu time to get back to Peter.
As long as her sister doesn’t make an appearance. ]
[ He reaches for the soap, lathering it a little in his hands before he runs it along her bare skin. It’s gentle but methodical, and he’s trying his absolute best to avoid anything too suggestive.
She’s hurt, and she needs to recover, and all the shit that’s happened the past couple days, and all the shit that will happen in the next couple days, means there are more pressing things to think about. She doesn’t need a discount sex worker pressuring her into making good use of him.
(Peter’s not ashamed of what he does; hell, he likes what he does – but less than an hour at The Arrow has apparently shaken his confidence a little.) ]
[ There's nothing in Gamora's posture that seems suspicious of the way Peter is washing her. She doesn't seem wary about his intentions, and she's not bracing for him to encourage her otherwise; she just leans into him as he runs the soap over her skin, washing away the sweat and muck of the day.
Her forehead falls against Peter's shoulder, and she lets her eyes close as she focuses only on her breathing. The wound hurts, obviously, and she's sore and worn out from the day, and—
[ He's never had to do this for anyone, and it shows in the split-second hesitation before every shift or change in direction. He's mindful of her wound, and while he doesn't clean it directly, he washes away the blood that had fallen down along her side.
Her hair comes next, and it's just as well that she's leaning against him; it makes things a little easier. He's gentle, careful, as he runs his hands through her hair, works the shampoo into her scalp. When he's finished, he lets her stand against him, the water rinsing away the rest of the soap, and he cups one of her elbows to help brace her. ]
[ Gamora can't ever remember a time that someone washed her hair for her. Does it always feel so nice? She doesn't quite realize the soft sounds of contentment that slip from her, barely there and yet noticeable under the spray of the shower.
She offers a quiet hum of acknowledgement, drawing back just enough to look up at him. ]
[ She looks exhausted, but she's still on her feet, for now, which is something. He nods, shutting off the water with one hand and sliding the shower door open with the other. ]
C'mon. Let's get you to bed.
[ He helps her out of the shower, helps dry her off. The medkit is still in the bathroom from last night, and he helps her bandage up the wound. He drapes one of the bathrobes around her shoulders – he figures she'll change into more comfortable sleep clothes, after this – and wraps a towel around his waist. ]
[ For having argued so much before about not needing help, Gamora allows Peter to give it without complaint. It's odd, overwhelming in a way, but not enough for her to feel uncomfortable, even as Peter helps her bandage her side, as he drapes the robe around her. She slides her arms into it, tying it closed lightly before she heads into the bedroom.
Running her fingers through her wet hair, she wanders to the bed, tenderly lowering herself down on the edge. ]
Do you want to—
[ She stops herself, frowning, reevaluating, but then: ]
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That won't be a concern for you.
[ She keeps her folded dress against her side, and she nods towards the bedroom. ]
I'm going to take a shower.
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[ He finally stops his pacing to glance up at her, his concern starting to edge back in. ]
You feelin' all right? You need a hand, or are you good?
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[ The automatic answer. She's fine to a point, and surely better than she was yesterday, but she needs to clean her wound and check the stitches. And probably take something to finally deal with her pain. ]
I just need to get some rest.
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[ He moves toward her, readying himself to position himself on her wounded side as he has for most of the night. ]
Let me help you.
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She leans away reflexively, but can't stifle a wince and sharp inhale. ]
You— really don't have to.
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Whoa, hey, easy.
You can stop pretending you're good, you know. I'm just trying to help.
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He’s choosing to take care of her.
(Why? She’s done so many atrocious things in her life, in service of her father. She’s killed so many people, hurt so many more. But Peter has consistently continued to treat her like she deserves this kindness.
Maybe she doesn’t understand it yet, but a small, treasonous part of her wants to accept it.)
Tension slowly ebbs from her shoulders, but her eyes stay fixed on Peter’s face – still that look of a wild animal, reluctantly retracting its claws. ]
You don’t have to.
[ She repeats herself, but she sounds less defensive, less mistrusting. ]
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I know I don't have to, but I want to.
And I know you can manage it on your own, but you don't have to do that, either.
I just wanna help, but only if you'll let me.
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He was going to see it when they reach the bedroom, anyway. ]
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But naturally, the flash of red at her side immediately draws his attention, and he freezes. ]
Shit, Gamora.
[ Rather than wrap his arm around her, he takes hold of her elbow, helping to support her weight. ]
I knew we shoudl've come straight here after dinner.
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[ It's not great, but...
Gamora would maintain she's had worse.
But still, she allows Peter to steer her to the bedroom and the bathroom, and when she has the chance, she leans against the sink with a shuddering sigh. ]
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[ He leaves her to lean against the counter, turning toward the shower to draw the water. After a second of hesitation, though, he starts to unfasten the rest of the buttons of his shirt – just enough that he can easily pull it up and over his head, leaving him in his undershirt. ]
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... Would you...?
[ Actually asking for "help" is not so easy. ]
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He takes hold of the silk, waiting for her to readjust before he gently pulls the fabric up and over her head, setting the slip away on the counter. He frowns at the dressing, an angry blotch of red standing out against the white material as a testament to how much she pushed herself tonight.
A muscle along the line of his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth, angry at himself for not noticing sooner. ]
You can lean against me in the shower.
[ He says it as he's pulling off his undershirt, adding it to the growing pile on the bathroom counter. ]
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She's getting too tired to keep arguing.
Instead, she nods, and just hooks her thumbs into her panties, pushing them down and allowing them to drop to the floor. She's obviously not about to start being shy around Peter now, considering how much he's seen of her already, but— it's different in this context. She gently peels the dressing away from her side, finally inspecting the damage she'd done. The stitches appear to have held, but the flesh that had been healing around them is slowly seeping blood – again, not much, but enough to have bled through the bandages over the course of the last 24 hours.
She discards the bandages in a small trashcan (reminding herself to toss the bag), before she glances back to Peter, stepping forward to test the water's temperature. ]
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He has his rebuttals all queued up. He'll probably start with No, you're not, follow up with yeah, probably, but you shouldn't and you're gonna slip and fall and crack your head open.
Luckily, though, he doesn't have to offer any of that up, and when she finishes undressing, so does he – and he makes quick work of it, thanks to a great deal of practice. In a different moment, he'd be more mindful to fold his clothes properly, in deference to how expensive as fuck they are. At this very second, though, taking proper care of the clothing Gamora bought him is the last thing on his mind. ]
Not too hot, is it?
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No, it's fine.
[ She steps into the water, though she's careful to prevent the spray from pounding directly on her side. Instead, it runs down her shoulders, lower to lightly rinse over the bloody skin. She leans in to wet her face, soaking her hair to push it all back and away. It feels good after the long, demanding day, and what's left of her tension starts to bleed out of her tightly coiled muscles.
Unconsciously, her body sways slightly under the spray as she finally relaxes. ]
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Easy.
[ He murmurs it over the noise of water hitting tile. Water falls over his head, and he pauses briefly to push his hair back out of his face, to appreciate the heat of it along his skin. (A few days with appropriate water pressure and heat has been fucking heavenly.) ]
You're sure you've got nothing tomorrow? 'Cause you seriously need to give yourself time to recuperate.
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As far as I know.
[ And if Monica contacts her, Gamora should be able to push out a meeting for a day or so — which hopefully might give Yondu time to get back to Peter.
As long as her sister doesn’t make an appearance. ]
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[ He reaches for the soap, lathering it a little in his hands before he runs it along her bare skin. It’s gentle but methodical, and he’s trying his absolute best to avoid anything too suggestive.
She’s hurt, and she needs to recover, and all the shit that’s happened the past couple days, and all the shit that will happen in the next couple days, means there are more pressing things to think about. She doesn’t need a discount sex worker pressuring her into making good use of him.
(Peter’s not ashamed of what he does; hell, he likes what he does – but less than an hour at The Arrow has apparently shaken his confidence a little.) ]
Just relax. I’ve got you.
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Her forehead falls against Peter's shoulder, and she lets her eyes close as she focuses only on her breathing. The wound hurts, obviously, and she's sore and worn out from the day, and—
This is somehow exactly what she needed. ]
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Her hair comes next, and it's just as well that she's leaning against him; it makes things a little easier. He's gentle, careful, as he runs his hands through her hair, works the shampoo into her scalp. When he's finished, he lets her stand against him, the water rinsing away the rest of the soap, and he cups one of her elbows to help brace her. ]
Still with me?
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She offers a quiet hum of acknowledgement, drawing back just enough to look up at him. ]
I'm fine.
[ Conscious, but tired. ]
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C'mon. Let's get you to bed.
[ He helps her out of the shower, helps dry her off. The medkit is still in the bathroom from last night, and he helps her bandage up the wound. He drapes one of the bathrobes around her shoulders – he figures she'll change into more comfortable sleep clothes, after this – and wraps a towel around his waist. ]
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Running her fingers through her wet hair, she wanders to the bed, tenderly lowering herself down on the edge. ]
Do you want to—
[ She stops herself, frowning, reevaluating, but then: ]
Do you want to sleep here, instead of the couch?
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