[ 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: ]
[ He gives himself a cursory towel-down before following her out. He fishes out his sweatpants and another tee, slipping them on. He uses the towel to dry off his hair, though he stops for a split-second at her question.
He licks his lips, glancing back at her. ]
I'm worried about hitting your wound.
[ Which is why he slept on the couch last night.
... mostly, anyway. That's 90% of the reason why.
The other 10% was because everything else feels— weird.
All the shit from last night has flipped things on their head, and all the shit going on now has made things so fucking complicated. She's hurt, and she's tired, and he's forced to interact with people he promised himself he wouldn't see for the rest of his life, and now he has to ditch everything he's known for the past handful of years, and—
—and she's paying him, he reminds himself. She hired him for a reason.
He falters for a little, pulling the towel down so it hangs around his neck. ]
[ She's tired, but she still sees the awkward hitch, the way he pauses. It's why she wasn't sure if she should ask at all, because she knows how complicated this is. She knows that she's effectively turned Peter's life inside out, and she knows that— in so many ways, Peter doesn't have a choice. Gamora can't take any of this back, can't undo how he's spiraled into being part of this, no matter how much she regrets that he's become tangled in her life's web.
But he's also the reason why there's a way out potentially on her horizon. She hasn't found a tangible escape yet, and she's been trying and trying for longer than she can remember. She owes him more than she can say – if only because the words are foreign and ashy on her tongue.
She nods, again combing through her hair, gently working out knots. ]
If you're sure.
[ She's not worried about her injury, really, especially since Peter sleeps (or has slept?) on her opposite side. ]
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no subject
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?
no subject
She offers a quiet hum of acknowledgement, drawing back just enough to look up at him. ]
I'm fine.
[ Conscious, but tired. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
He licks his lips, glancing back at her. ]
I'm worried about hitting your wound.
[ Which is why he slept on the couch last night.
... mostly, anyway. That's 90% of the reason why.
The other 10% was because everything else feels— weird.
All the shit from last night has flipped things on their head, and all the shit going on now has made things so fucking complicated. She's hurt, and she's tired, and he's forced to interact with people he promised himself he wouldn't see for the rest of his life, and now he has to ditch everything he's known for the past handful of years, and—
—and she's paying him, he reminds himself. She hired him for a reason.
He falters for a little, pulling the towel down so it hangs around his neck. ]
Anyway. You probably need the space.
no subject
But he's also the reason why there's a way out potentially on her horizon. She hasn't found a tangible escape yet, and she's been trying and trying for longer than she can remember. She owes him more than she can say – if only because the words are foreign and ashy on her tongue.
She nods, again combing through her hair, gently working out knots. ]
If you're sure.
[ She's not worried about her injury, really, especially since Peter sleeps (or has slept?) on her opposite side. ]
no subject
I'd rather not accidentally punch you in the side in my sleep.
I can crash on the couch.
[ And he nods toward the living room, rather than the chaise he had fallen asleep on last night. ]
no subject
At least it's a comfortable couch.
[ And it should be, since it probably costs something wholly unreasonable. ]
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Considering the state of my bed back home, anything would be more comfortable. I could sleep on the floor and probably be happy.
[ He sets the towel aside, rubbing at the back of his neck. ]
You need a hand with anything?
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[ It's a more genuine "fine" than before, if only because she can't think for herself what else she might need. ]
If I don't wake on my own, come get me when they bring breakfast.
[ ... It's supposed to sound like a request, but Gamora isn't great with those. ]
no subject
(So, what, he's downgraded from fucktoy to servant, now?)
Then, ]
Yeah. Okay.
[ A little blandly.
He retrieves his phone, his Walkman, and a blanket before heading toward the living room. He pauses, in the doorway, turning back to her. ]
Just shout if you need anything, I guess.