[ Gamora and Drax have the benefit of being terrifying on their own, but they certainly don't have Peter's people skills. He can usually smooth talk their quarry out of their information without needing to resort to the same kind of intimidation and tactless demands that the others opt for. They still get results, even if there's a few broken bones by the end of it, but when it's over, they put in a call to have the leftovers picked up. They'll be compensated for it soon enough, and that seems to be the end of the rest of the team's concerns.
After they've finished, Gamora finds her way back to where she'd left Peter. She only hesitates for a moment before approaching him, going to sit on the ground beside him.
She doesn't speak at first, looking out across the bunker. ]
[ Peter doesn’t move as Gamora settles in beside him, and he only bothers to lift his head at her question. He almost looks a little startled, even, squinting at their surroundings with bleary eyes. ]
We’re done?
[ Croaked out.
Sure enough, he sees the still-breathing assassins huddled in a corner, being harried by a small mammal with a giant gun and a small bonsai with a guileless smile. Peter would laugh at the image, except without the adrenaline pulsing through him, the dull throb in his head becomes far more persistent, makes doing anything but sitting quietly sound like a bad time.
But it also means Peter was just having nap time while everyone else did all the work, and he grimaces. ]
[ And that was exactly why she was reluctant to even ask: she didn't want him to think she was treating him like he's weak (because she certainly doesn't think that he is). ]
I know that; I did not mean the head injury.
[ The defensiveness reflects back slightly in her own mood, but she doesn't bristle in the same manner. ]
But yes, we're leaving.
[ She pushes herself up to her feet again, jerking her chin back in the direction of the bunker's exit. ]
[ Guilt curls through him when she responds back in kind – maybe not in the same irritable manner as Peter, but certainly with the same sort of spirit – and his chin dips toward his chest, gaze skittering away to examine the metal panels of the floor. If it were the other way around, Peter would be asking the same questions – and he’d probably be a whole lot more overbearing than Gamora is right now, hovering and asking over and over if there was anything he could do.
He’s— kind of being a prick about this, he realizes, and he scrubs his face with a hand, not moving to stand. ]
... Sorry.
[ Mumbled out, muffled against his palm. He swallows thickly. ]
I didn’t— [ He cuts himself off, lips pressing together tightly. With his free hand he gestures to himself. ] Headache.
[ and it’s a piss-poor excuse, but it’s what he goes with. ]
[ Gamora isn't especially good at the persistent checking in like Peter is (probably because she isn't great at letting someone worry over her either, considering the multitude of times she's tried to brush off Peter's concern with her own injuries, but she's at least gotten a little better about it). She simply doesn't have the same tenacity that Peter does when it comes to offering to take care of someone, because before Peter and the rest of the Guardians, it's never been a part of her life. Showing concern was showing weakness with her siblings, after all, but here with Peter, she's trying.
She's just not very good at pushing against that stubbornness when someone makes it clear they have no interest in her attempts.
Looking at down at him, she considers him silently before crouching again in front of him. She only hesitates for a moment, but then she reaches out, setting a hand on his wrist. Her touch is light, careful, but there. ]
You have nothing to prove, Quill.
[ It's the same thing he'd said to her, once upon a time. ]
[ Peter lets out a scoffing noise, but he doesn't pull away from her touch. ]
You say that, but put yourself in my shoes, huh? [ A little dully, rather than resentful. ] You try bein' the dweeby sidekick hanging out with a bunch of goddamn superheroes.
Injuries are the nature of this work, no matter our biology.
[ She shakes her head, though she lets the touch linger when he doesn't pull away. ]
That is why we're a team. We have strengths where others may have weaknesses, but that does not make you less valuable because of a weakness.
[ And that is something she's learned from Peter, too. Perfection isn't mandatory, and the team is there to hold each other up.
... Of course, motivational speeches are much more Peter's strength than hers, and she's sure she's not nearly as convincing as him, but she's definitely trying, and that means a lot coming from her. ]
[ His lips part to protest out of hand, because he's an argumentative bastard even at the best of times. But eventually his better sense catches up with him (and it's a long time coming, considering the state of him), and he connects the dots:
This is Gamora, saying these things. This is Gamora, who's more than happy to tell some asshole just how completely useless they are, who doesn't waste time on niceties if she doesn't have to.
He falls quiet for a long moment, letting himself digest this realization, before offering a lopsided sort of smile, something warm and a little fond. ]
Look at you, giving me a pep talk.
[ He says it wryly, and he breathes out a laugh. ]
[ Ah, and that smile is much preferred to the self-deprecating frustration. Some part of her even thinks that she likes it when he smiles.
... But that's a foolish thought — embarrassing too.
(Even if it's honest.) ]
You are much better at them.
[ A dismissive shake of her head, if only to hide the vague twitch of her own smile tugging at her lips, something she tries to brush away quickly enough. She only distantly realizes she's still touching him, and she should... probably stop that.
But she doesn't. ]
You'll be fine with some rest; this is hardly the worst any of us has undertaken.
[ She'd had her arm disastrously snapped recently, after all, and this was worlds better than his gunshot. He'll survive, even if he won't be comfortable for a while. ]
[ He lets out a slow breath, trying to force his frustration bleed out with it. It doesn't work entirely, but he manages to force away most of it. ]
Try tellin' that to my pride.
[ Which has taken a pretty hefty blow today – an even heavier one than the one to his head. It's really just his luck, to get knocked out of one injury and into another, though a headache is far preferable to another hospital trip to get his insides sewn back up.
Another breath, though this time to steel himself. With a bit of reluctance, ]
Your pride will recover along with the rest of you.
[ But he doesn't need to ask twice, and Gamora pulls away to straighten back up. She holds a hand out to him without comment, pleased that he actually asked for the help. It's something she's also tried to improve, accepting help when she needs it, and she's glad to see that Peter might just take some of his own advice. ]
[ He takes her hand with only the barest hesitation – more from his own mental hangups than anything – and carefully hauls himself up to his feet. Once he's there, he pats himself on the back for only slightly tipping to one side before catching himself. ]
[ Gamora maintains her grip on his hand long enough to make sure he won't fall over, then releases him to gesture back towards the exit, where the others are already waiting (with growing impatience, it seems). ]
That can come after you rest.
[ But from the bunker's main hall, Rocket shouts back at them, ]
Would you idiots stop with the hand holdin' already so we can go? Do your gross mushy stuff later.
[ Tact, thy name is Rocket.
Maybe she has to remind him about how detachable his tail actually is. ]
[ Peter’s expression pinches at the mention of rest (again), and his lips part to protest. Rocket beats him to it, though, and rather than complain (again), Peter’s gaze snaps up to the asshole in question, and he flinches. His stomach flips a little, color inching up his neck when he realizes how the two of them must look. He cuts a glance over to Gamora with wide, startled eyes, before he compulsively rocks back to put distance between them. ]
We’re not— There isn’t— She’s not— We aren’t—
[ And he flounders for another second or two, doing his best impression of a fish out of water, before he scowls, stomping forward. ]
[ If she wasn't her own level of flustered and annoyed, Gamora might have found Peter's reaction a lot more entertaining. She, however, manages to keep her composure even with the odd flutter Rocket's obnoxious words kick up in her chest, and she takes her own steps back, glad to just follow Peter back to the entrance with the other three.
Drax gives the two of them a heavy look when they walk by. Gamora chooses to ignore it.
At least the mocking seems to stop all the way back to the Milano, this go-around with fewer traps, and despite the hard time Rocket had been giving them both, he just ends up being insistent about flying the ship so that Peter can take care of his head.
Gamora debates on simply retreating to her bunk to avoid thinking too much about the strange moments with Peter during the job: short instances of contact, of closeness, (of that stupid smile that made her heart leap). They've been largely successful at avoiding things like that since the party, and Gamora's been on board with it, because it makes it easier not confronting her own feelings. It's simpler not having to ask herself what she really wants from Peter or what significance these emotions have (unfamiliar, untested, almost uncomfortable), but despite the inclination to make herself scarce, she instead makes it to the medical supplies first. With the proper amount of painkillers and a bottle of water, she goes to look for Peter to offer them up.
[ The trek back to the ship is spent mostly bickering, save for the times when all of them are engrossed with avoiding or disabling whatever few traps they couldn’t avoid. Peter is a little more sluggish than he was before, and more than once Drax has to yank him aside, or Rocket has to take point in disabling whatever tech they find. He tries to tell himself it’s not a big deal, even though it feels like a big fucking deal, and despite Gamora’s earlier reassurances, Peter’s back to gritting his teeth once they board the Milano.
It hardly helps when Rocket drags up the only minutes old argument, insisting on piloting as they climb to the flight deck
(“Like hell am I trustin’ you with this ship when you’ve got a dent in that thick skull of yours. You can barely pilot on a good day, Quill. You’ll definitely kill us when you ain’t seein’ straight.”
To which Peter had cleverly replied, “I will flush you down the goddamn toilet, you piece of—” before Drax finally dragged him out of the cockpit.)
But Rocket wins, in the end, and once Drax deposits him in his room with strict instructions to rest, Peter flops down in his bed, crossing his arms over his chest.
He is almost certainly sulking.
But his head pounds in time with his heartbeat, and even the dim light of his room pierces straight through his eyes. By the time Gamora finds him, his eyes are covered with his hand again, his other hand rubbing small circles at his temple. ]
[ But at least he's sitting up, and she holds out the medication and water again, clearly expecting that he take both — she intends to be just as stubborn with this as she was about him being at least slightly vertical, of course. ]
You can complain, but you would insist just as much if I were the one with the head injury.
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After they've finished, Gamora finds her way back to where she'd left Peter. She only hesitates for a moment before approaching him, going to sit on the ground beside him.
She doesn't speak at first, looking out across the bunker. ]
Are you ready to leave?
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We’re done?
[ Croaked out.
Sure enough, he sees the still-breathing assassins huddled in a corner, being harried by a small mammal with a giant gun and a small bonsai with a guileless smile. Peter would laugh at the image, except without the adrenaline pulsing through him, the dull throb in his head becomes far more persistent, makes doing anything but sitting quietly sound like a bad time.
But it also means Peter was just having nap time while everyone else did all the work, and he grimaces. ]
Dammit.
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[ No one's bothered that he had to sit out for this part; they handled it just fine, after all.
(The team at large is concerned with the fact that he's okay. They seem to fall apart more than just a little when he isn't.) ]
The difficult part was already over.
[ He helped get them through the battle, and that's the important thing, as far as she's concerned.
She hesitates before she asks her next question, but: ]
... Are you all right?
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I keep telling you I’m fine. [ Sharp, defensive. ] It’s gonna take a lot more than a bump to the head to do me in, alright?
So are we leaving now, or—?
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I know that; I did not mean the head injury.
[ The defensiveness reflects back slightly in her own mood, but she doesn't bristle in the same manner. ]
But yes, we're leaving.
[ She pushes herself up to her feet again, jerking her chin back in the direction of the bunker's exit. ]
Come on.
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He’s— kind of being a prick about this, he realizes, and he scrubs his face with a hand, not moving to stand. ]
... Sorry.
[ Mumbled out, muffled against his palm. He swallows thickly. ]
I didn’t— [ He cuts himself off, lips pressing together tightly. With his free hand he gestures to himself. ] Headache.
[ and it’s a piss-poor excuse, but it’s what he goes with. ]
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She's just not very good at pushing against that stubbornness when someone makes it clear they have no interest in her attempts.
Looking at down at him, she considers him silently before crouching again in front of him. She only hesitates for a moment, but then she reaches out, setting a hand on his wrist. Her touch is light, careful, but there. ]
You have nothing to prove, Quill.
[ It's the same thing he'd said to her, once upon a time. ]
These things will happen.
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You say that, but put yourself in my shoes, huh? [ A little dully, rather than resentful. ] You try bein' the dweeby sidekick hanging out with a bunch of goddamn superheroes.
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[ She shakes her head, though she lets the touch linger when he doesn't pull away. ]
That is why we're a team. We have strengths where others may have weaknesses, but that does not make you less valuable because of a weakness.
[ And that is something she's learned from Peter, too. Perfection isn't mandatory, and the team is there to hold each other up.
... Of course, motivational speeches are much more Peter's strength than hers, and she's sure she's not nearly as convincing as him, but she's definitely trying, and that means a lot coming from her. ]
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This is Gamora, saying these things. This is Gamora, who's more than happy to tell some asshole just how completely useless they are, who doesn't waste time on niceties if she doesn't have to.
He falls quiet for a long moment, letting himself digest this realization, before offering a lopsided sort of smile, something warm and a little fond. ]
Look at you, giving me a pep talk.
[ He says it wryly, and he breathes out a laugh. ]
Not bad.
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... But that's a foolish thought — embarrassing too.
(Even if it's honest.) ]
You are much better at them.
[ A dismissive shake of her head, if only to hide the vague twitch of her own smile tugging at her lips, something she tries to brush away quickly enough. She only distantly realizes she's still touching him, and she should... probably stop that.
But she doesn't. ]
You'll be fine with some rest; this is hardly the worst any of us has undertaken.
[ She'd had her arm disastrously snapped recently, after all, and this was worlds better than his gunshot. He'll survive, even if he won't be comfortable for a while. ]
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Try tellin' that to my pride.
[ Which has taken a pretty hefty blow today – an even heavier one than the one to his head. It's really just his luck, to get knocked out of one injury and into another, though a headache is far preferable to another hospital trip to get his insides sewn back up.
Another breath, though this time to steel himself. With a bit of reluctance, ]
Help me up?
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[ But he doesn't need to ask twice, and Gamora pulls away to straighten back up. She holds a hand out to him without comment, pleased that he actually asked for the help. It's something she's also tried to improve, accepting help when she needs it, and she's glad to see that Peter might just take some of his own advice. ]
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Remind me to put airbags on my helmet.
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That can come after you rest.
[ But from the bunker's main hall, Rocket shouts back at them, ]
Would you idiots stop with the hand holdin' already so we can go? Do your gross mushy stuff later.
[ Tact, thy name is Rocket.
Maybe she has to remind him about how detachable his tail actually is. ]
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We’re not— There isn’t— She’s not— We aren’t—
[ And he flounders for another second or two, doing his best impression of a fish out of water, before he scowls, stomping forward. ]
Shut up, Rocket!
[ Rocket only answers by snickering. ]
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Drax gives the two of them a heavy look when they walk by. Gamora chooses to ignore it.
At least the mocking seems to stop all the way back to the Milano, this go-around with fewer traps, and despite the hard time Rocket had been giving them both, he just ends up being insistent about flying the ship so that Peter can take care of his head.
Gamora debates on simply retreating to her bunk to avoid thinking too much about the strange moments with Peter during the job: short instances of contact, of closeness, (of that stupid smile that made her heart leap). They've been largely successful at avoiding things like that since the party, and Gamora's been on board with it, because it makes it easier not confronting her own feelings. It's simpler not having to ask herself what she really wants from Peter or what significance these emotions have (unfamiliar, untested, almost uncomfortable), but despite the inclination to make herself scarce, she instead makes it to the medical supplies first. With the proper amount of painkillers and a bottle of water, she goes to look for Peter to offer them up.
A small gesture, but a genuinely nice one. ]
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It hardly helps when Rocket drags up the only minutes old argument, insisting on piloting as they climb to the flight deck
(“Like hell am I trustin’ you with this ship when you’ve got a dent in that thick skull of yours. You can barely pilot on a good day, Quill. You’ll definitely kill us when you ain’t seein’ straight.”
To which Peter had cleverly replied, “I will flush you down the goddamn toilet, you piece of—” before Drax finally dragged him out of the cockpit.)
But Rocket wins, in the end, and once Drax deposits him in his room with strict instructions to rest, Peter flops down in his bed, crossing his arms over his chest.
He is almost certainly sulking.
But his head pounds in time with his heartbeat, and even the dim light of his room pierces straight through his eyes. By the time Gamora finds him, his eyes are covered with his hand again, his other hand rubbing small circles at his temple. ]
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Quill.
[ Of course, she also doesn't wait for permission before stepping into his room, instead holding up the painkillers and water. ]
You should take these.
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That means I need to sit up.
Pass.
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Just for a moment, and then you can go back to... [ she waves a vague hand at him with the water bottle. ] ... being horizontal.
[ And for good measure, he gets another little nudge to encourage him upright. ]
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Quit that.
[ The nudging. ]
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— nudges him again.
And if he doesn't move this time, there will be another nudge waiting for him. ]
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You're such a prick.
[ With all gravitas of someone declaring some deep, universal truth.
But third time's the charm, apparently, and he props himself up on an elbow. ]
I'm up. Happy now?
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[ But at least he's sitting up, and she holds out the medication and water again, clearly expecting that he take both — she intends to be just as stubborn with this as she was about him being at least slightly vertical, of course. ]
You can complain, but you would insist just as much if I were the one with the head injury.
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