[ 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.
[ He heaves out a long-suffering sigh, shifting a little to slouch against the bulkhead and to free up his hands. He takes the proffered items without complaint, at least, which means it's the moving part he had a real problem with.
He's halfway to popping the painkillers into his mouth when she continues on, and he scowls up at her. ]
That's different.
[ He grumbles it before he takes the painkillers, washing them down with the water.
Which means he doesn't have to elaborate on how, exactly, it's different. ]
[ Peter, at least, doesn't protest; in fact, he shifts over a little to better accommodate her. At her little gesture, he huffs out a mildly affronted breath, but does as he's told, taking another long pull from the bottle.
Partially because he doesn't want to deal with the nagging, but also because it gives him time to think of an excuse. ]
It's different. [ A little insistently, as if repeating it will make it more true. ] I mean, you guys tend to take some seriously crazy beatings. Of course I'm gonna be worried about it.
I fell wrong. That's— not really on the same level.
Because you are more use to us when you're well and uninjured.
[ She says it with a shrug. ]
... And because we have seen when it's been worse than this. I think we would all prefer to avoid that.
[ Gamora wants to avoid it.
She doesn't want to have cause to be that afraid for Peter again.
(It's probably why she'd reacted so strongly to the assassin who'd tried to shoot him in the back that day, why she'd lashed out with so much anger and determination to see him suffer.) ]
[ The reminder gives him pause, and finally, he looks properly chagrined, chin dipping a little toward his chest. It takes him a second, but he clears his throat, rolling the bottle of water a little nervously between his palms. ]
... It turned out alright, though, huh? I was fine. I am fine. And this is nowhere near that same level, you know? Which is what I've been saying.
... I just do not want to see you like that again.
[ Did she say "I?" She probably meant "we." Probably.
The practical part of her knows that their work is dangerous and that there will undoubtedly be more close calls, but Gamora has already decided she will do everything she can to keep that from happening.
And she knows the rest of the team is just as dedicated to getting Peter through alive. ]
[ That makes him frown, and he sits up a little straighter.
Serious Time, apparently. ]
You said it yourself, Gamora. Remember? This shit happens.
[ Which is not at all a direct quote, but he at least captures the spirit. ]
We kick ass. We get hurt. Sometimes it's little shit like today. Sometimes it's serious shit. But we can't just— let the world stop turning because someone, like, skins their knee or something.
[ He falls quiet for a second, goes back to rolling the bottle of water between his palms just for something to do with his hands. ]
You know why I hound you guys so much? Whenever you get hurt or sick or whatever.
[ She knows he has a point, and she knows that he's right, because she's perfectly aware of the risks associated with their work. These things will happen (have happened), and there's no avoiding it — she can try, but whatever they come up against might just be stronger, faster, deadlier than the team combined.
All they can do is their best.
She glances at him, watching as he fidgets with the bottle for a moment before looking back to his face. ]
[ That, and a whole mess of other issues, not the least of which is a childhood spent feeling helpless as his loved ones suffered, but that doesn't exactly help his point, here. ]
I'm pretty sure any one of you guys would let yourselves bleed to death before you bothered to tell anyone.
[ Which is an exaggeration, but not too off the mark. ]
Admittedly, you guys are getting better about it, but it's just— I can't know how serious something is until you tell me, you know? And that's why I hound you guys.
Me? [ He shrugs a shoulder. ] I know when I'm beaten, and I know when I need a hand. And this? [ A gesture toward himself; his head still aches, but it's faded to a dull, constant throb. With luck, it'll disappear entirely in the next little while. ] Not that serious.
Gamora herself has been working on trying to accept a hand here and there, to let Peter do more when she's injured, because letting him help before had been... difficult. She's been getting better about letting herself believe it isn't weakness, that she can be vulnerable around Peter and the others, but it's still a struggle sometimes.
A quiet sigh, but then she finally nods in agreement. ]
I'm not very good at this.
[ The knowing-when-to-take-care-of-someone thing — and the actual taking-care-of, to begin with. ]
I base my expectations off of my own behavior and I expect you to downplay your injuries, so I don't want to... fail to be there when you need assistance.
[ He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, but doesn't offer any more comment. Hard enough to admit when you're wrong, after all, and maybe if it were any other topic, he'd rub it in more – it's not often he gets to be right.
But, no. Serious Time, still. And after a second, Peter lets out a breath, gaze skittering away to the bulkhead. ]
... I admit. I might, on occasion, downplay stuff sometimes. But only sometimes.
[ Liar.
But he drags his gaze back up to meet hers, and he offers a small, crooked little smile. ]
But you haven't failed me yet. You've been there every time I needed you, you know? So...
[ A deep breath, as if to rally himself, and he says quietly, sincerely, ]
... Thanks. And thanks for saving my ass earlier today.
[ She levels him with a pointed look, because she knows he's as guilty as she is about hiding the extent of an injury (she just happens to have a different sort of resiliency and tolerance that means she hides far worse injuries).
But that crooked smile on his face settles her, warms something in her chest that she doesn't expect.
(Because she likes that smile, that one in particular.
Foolish, she thinks.
But she still likes it.)
There's a small tug of her own lips in response, ever so subtle but there, and she offers a nod of acknowledgement. ]
You are welcome.
[ She glances over at the bulkhead to try and hide a bit of the warmth in her eyes, even as she adds, ]
After all, it would have been a shame if you died before you could ask me to dance again.
[ She may not see it, avoiding his gaze as she is, but his face lights up at her words, and he leans forward a little, eager and slightly disbelieving. ]
Yeah? You mean that?
[ Never mind the slightly macabre idea of Peter getting killed; he latches onto the important part, clearly. ]
You... [ He clears his throat, his tone shifting as he tries for something a little more neutral, a little more nonchalant, as though he isn’t waiting anxiously for her answer. ]
[ She glances at him out of the corner of her eye when she catches movement, the way he leans forward, and it's genuinely difficult to keep her smile reserved when he brightens so much. The excitement is oddly flattering, the eagerness lighthearted in a way she sees so occasionally from him, but she likes it all the same. ]
Of course. Why would that have changed?
[ ... Other than how awkward and uncertain they'd been around each other since the party. ]
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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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He's halfway to popping the painkillers into his mouth when she continues on, and he scowls up at her. ]
That's different.
[ He grumbles it before he takes the painkillers, washing them down with the water.
Which means he doesn't have to elaborate on how, exactly, it's different. ]
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I don't see how.
[ She watches him with the water, giving a little nod to the bottle to encourage him to drink plenty more of it. ]
You're allowed to worry over us, but we cannot show concern for you?
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Partially because he doesn't want to deal with the nagging, but also because it gives him time to think of an excuse. ]
It's different. [ A little insistently, as if repeating it will make it more true. ] I mean, you guys tend to take some seriously crazy beatings. Of course I'm gonna be worried about it.
I fell wrong. That's— not really on the same level.
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[ She isn't buying his argument, obviously. ]
This is what teammates do, Quill. You don't get to be the exception.
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That's not what I meant.
[ ... it's kind of what he meant. ]
I'm just saying, this isn't a big deal, okay? And I dunno why you guys are treating it like it is. That's all.
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[ She says it with a shrug. ]
... And because we have seen when it's been worse than this. I think we would all prefer to avoid that.
[ Gamora wants to avoid it.
She doesn't want to have cause to be that afraid for Peter again.
(It's probably why she'd reacted so strongly to the assassin who'd tried to shoot him in the back that day, why she'd lashed out with so much anger and determination to see him suffer.) ]
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... It turned out alright, though, huh? I was fine. I am fine. And this is nowhere near that same level, you know? Which is what I've been saying.
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[ Did she say "I?" She probably meant "we." Probably.
The practical part of her knows that their work is dangerous and that there will undoubtedly be more close calls, but Gamora has already decided she will do everything she can to keep that from happening.
And she knows the rest of the team is just as dedicated to getting Peter through alive. ]
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Serious Time, apparently. ]
You said it yourself, Gamora. Remember? This shit happens.
[ Which is not at all a direct quote, but he at least captures the spirit. ]
We kick ass. We get hurt. Sometimes it's little shit like today. Sometimes it's serious shit. But we can't just— let the world stop turning because someone, like, skins their knee or something.
[ He falls quiet for a second, goes back to rolling the bottle of water between his palms just for something to do with his hands. ]
You know why I hound you guys so much? Whenever you get hurt or sick or whatever.
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All they can do is their best.
She glances at him, watching as he fidgets with the bottle for a moment before looking back to his face. ]
Why?
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[ That, and a whole mess of other issues, not the least of which is a childhood spent feeling helpless as his loved ones suffered, but that doesn't exactly help his point, here. ]
I'm pretty sure any one of you guys would let yourselves bleed to death before you bothered to tell anyone.
[ Which is an exaggeration, but not too off the mark. ]
Admittedly, you guys are getting better about it, but it's just— I can't know how serious something is until you tell me, you know? And that's why I hound you guys.
Me? [ He shrugs a shoulder. ] I know when I'm beaten, and I know when I need a hand. And this? [ A gesture toward himself; his head still aches, but it's faded to a dull, constant throb. With luck, it'll disappear entirely in the next little while. ] Not that serious.
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He isn't wrong.
Gamora herself has been working on trying to accept a hand here and there, to let Peter do more when she's injured, because letting him help before had been... difficult. She's been getting better about letting herself believe it isn't weakness, that she can be vulnerable around Peter and the others, but it's still a struggle sometimes.
A quiet sigh, but then she finally nods in agreement. ]
I'm not very good at this.
[ The knowing-when-to-take-care-of-someone thing — and the actual taking-care-of, to begin with. ]
I base my expectations off of my own behavior and I expect you to downplay your injuries, so I don't want to... fail to be there when you need assistance.
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But, no. Serious Time, still. And after a second, Peter lets out a breath, gaze skittering away to the bulkhead. ]
... I admit. I might, on occasion, downplay stuff sometimes. But only sometimes.
[ Liar.
But he drags his gaze back up to meet hers, and he offers a small, crooked little smile. ]
But you haven't failed me yet. You've been there every time I needed you, you know? So...
[ A deep breath, as if to rally himself, and he says quietly, sincerely, ]
... Thanks. And thanks for saving my ass earlier today.
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[ She levels him with a pointed look, because she knows he's as guilty as she is about hiding the extent of an injury (she just happens to have a different sort of resiliency and tolerance that means she hides far worse injuries).
But that crooked smile on his face settles her, warms something in her chest that she doesn't expect.
(Because she likes that smile, that one in particular.
Foolish, she thinks.
But she still likes it.)
There's a small tug of her own lips in response, ever so subtle but there, and she offers a nod of acknowledgement. ]
You are welcome.
[ She glances over at the bulkhead to try and hide a bit of the warmth in her eyes, even as she adds, ]
After all, it would have been a shame if you died before you could ask me to dance again.
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Yeah? You mean that?
[ Never mind the slightly macabre idea of Peter getting killed; he latches onto the important part, clearly. ]
You... [ He clears his throat, his tone shifting as he tries for something a little more neutral, a little more nonchalant, as though he isn’t waiting anxiously for her answer. ]
You still plan on saying yes?
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Of course. Why would that have changed?
[ ... Other than how awkward and uncertain they'd been around each other since the party. ]
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