[ 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. ]
[ He tries to wrangle his expression back into something a little less kid-in-a-candy-store, a little more cool, and he settles back against the bulkhead. (His stomach flips, though, at the warmth in her smile, in her eyes, something fluttering in his chest for it.
Not for the first time, and most certainly not for the last, he thinks, Holy shit, you’ve got it bad, Quill.)
At her question, his expression falls a little – not enough to dark his expression, but certainly enough as to be noticeable. ]
No reason.
[ Lots of reasons, actually, not the least of which is the strange distance that had drifted between them, bit by bit. A sort of stiltedness to their conversations that hadn’t been there since the early days – like after escaping the Kyln, with neither of them quite sure how to read the other. ]
But, you know. [ He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ] People just change their minds, sometimes.
[ She's spent too much time with Peter not to catch the falter in his smile, and there's something that twinges oddly in her chest with it.
"No reason," she thinks, is completely inaccurate.
But she also doesn't know how to call him on it or how to bring it up herself. That heaviness in the wake of their near-kiss still sits between them, and it seems like something that should be discussed (since they obviously are terrible at legitimately acting like it never happened, like things were the same as they'd always been), but she is so far out of her depth that she has no idea how to say anything about it.
... She still isn't sure if she should.
Reasonably, she knows that agreeing to dance with Peter again is another kind of boundary-crossing thing, but it feels more like their adventures together when they'd tried so many new things (something she misses when she lets herself stop and think about it). The kiss is too... concrete, too frightfully legitimate in a way that opens new doors she isn't sure they'd be able to close if they needed to.
So instead, she just shrugs in a mirror of his own gesture. ]
[ The corner of his mouth twitches upward, that same grin from earlier threatening to return in full force, but he keeps it at bay for now. Because it’s seriously uncool, and he’s going for suave, here. Cool and collected. He already looked bad enough when he bonked his head and had a ship full of people on his case for it. Already bad enough that he’ll be getting concerned glances for the next day or two while he bounced back.
He doesn’t need an insane, elated smile ruining his already slightly tarnished image.
Peter takes a second to find his voice, and when he trusts it to not come out a few shades higher than normal, he says smoothly, ]
I’ll have to keep that in mind for when there’s a good song playing, then.
[ And he pops the “p” sound, the corner of his mouth rising a little higher as he tries to smother his smile.
It only half-works.
And he knows it’s hardly an answer – but Peter’s already tipped his hand pretty badly, practically shy of holding his cards backwards to face the entire table, and a stubborn part of him feels like he ought to maintain some air of mystery.
Part of him wonders if she’s agreeing just to make him happy, some residual urge from that day in the market that he barely remembers, some little carrot dangling in his face to keep him moving forward. He wonders if she actually wants to indulge him because she would enjoy it, or if she’s indulging him because she’s gotten into the habit of holding the stick and has completely forgotten why.
The same reason why the team coddled him today. The same reason why Gamora kept casting concerned looks his way. Like they think that if they don’t keep an eye on him, he might disappear.
[ Gamora's not sure why she expected a straight answer, but she finds that she doesn't even mind — not when that smile is fighting its way onto his face all over again. ]
But maybe I will ask you first.
[ Because she sees no reason why she shouldn't ask him instead, if it's something she'll also enjoy. Gamora isn't one to sit back and let things happen, after all, and she's already danced with him more than once, promised to dance with him beyond that too, so why not beat him to the punch?
If only to see the look on his face when she does ask. ]
[ He huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shrugging a shoulder. ]
You say that like I’d mind.
[ Which he wouldn’t, after all. Peter already claims the credit for asking her first, and he can boast that he was likely the first person she’s ever willingly said “yes” to. So he’s pretty much set, in his own eyes.
(He almost thinks, I could die happy, but he shies away from the thought like it burns.)
He lifts a hand to carefully prod at the lump on the back of his head – the pain has dulled down, at least. Something present but not distracting. ]
Maybe wait till I’m not liable to trip over myself just standing, though.
[ But she can wait. She's in no immediate rush, not with the things she still feels like she has to parse through for herself, the unfamiliarity of emotion that she doesn't truly have a name for, the uncertainty in the wake of the party.
(The ferocious response that reared its head today during the fight.)
She watches him prod at himself, more considering than with blatant concern. ]
I should let you return to resting, since I disturbed you in the first place.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Not for the first time, and most certainly not for the last, he thinks, Holy shit, you’ve got it bad, Quill.)
At her question, his expression falls a little – not enough to dark his expression, but certainly enough as to be noticeable. ]
No reason.
[ Lots of reasons, actually, not the least of which is the strange distance that had drifted between them, bit by bit. A sort of stiltedness to their conversations that hadn’t been there since the early days – like after escaping the Kyln, with neither of them quite sure how to read the other. ]
But, you know. [ He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ] People just change their minds, sometimes.
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"No reason," she thinks, is completely inaccurate.
But she also doesn't know how to call him on it or how to bring it up herself. That heaviness in the wake of their near-kiss still sits between them, and it seems like something that should be discussed (since they obviously are terrible at legitimately acting like it never happened, like things were the same as they'd always been), but she is so far out of her depth that she has no idea how to say anything about it.
... She still isn't sure if she should.
Reasonably, she knows that agreeing to dance with Peter again is another kind of boundary-crossing thing, but it feels more like their adventures together when they'd tried so many new things (something she misses when she lets herself stop and think about it). The kiss is too... concrete, too frightfully legitimate in a way that opens new doors she isn't sure they'd be able to close if they needed to.
So instead, she just shrugs in a mirror of his own gesture. ]
I haven't decided otherwise.
All you have to do is ask.
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He doesn’t need an insane, elated smile ruining his already slightly tarnished image.
Peter takes a second to find his voice, and when he trusts it to not come out a few shades higher than normal, he says smoothly, ]
I’ll have to keep that in mind for when there’s a good song playing, then.
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A good song here on the ship or an actual dance floor?
[ Distantly, she realizes she'd indulge him either way. ]
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[ And he pops the “p” sound, the corner of his mouth rising a little higher as he tries to smother his smile.
It only half-works.
And he knows it’s hardly an answer – but Peter’s already tipped his hand pretty badly, practically shy of holding his cards backwards to face the entire table, and a stubborn part of him feels like he ought to maintain some air of mystery.
Part of him wonders if she’s agreeing just to make him happy, some residual urge from that day in the market that he barely remembers, some little carrot dangling in his face to keep him moving forward. He wonders if she actually wants to indulge him because she would enjoy it, or if she’s indulging him because she’s gotten into the habit of holding the stick and has completely forgotten why.
The same reason why the team coddled him today. The same reason why Gamora kept casting concerned looks his way. Like they think that if they don’t keep an eye on him, he might disappear.
He doesn’t know what to do with that. ]
We’ll play it by ear, like we usually do.
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[ Gamora's not sure why she expected a straight answer, but she finds that she doesn't even mind — not when that smile is fighting its way onto his face all over again. ]
But maybe I will ask you first.
[ Because she sees no reason why she shouldn't ask him instead, if it's something she'll also enjoy. Gamora isn't one to sit back and let things happen, after all, and she's already danced with him more than once, promised to dance with him beyond that too, so why not beat him to the punch?
If only to see the look on his face when she does ask. ]
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You say that like I’d mind.
[ Which he wouldn’t, after all. Peter already claims the credit for asking her first, and he can boast that he was likely the first person she’s ever willingly said “yes” to. So he’s pretty much set, in his own eyes.
(He almost thinks, I could die happy, but he shies away from the thought like it burns.)
He lifts a hand to carefully prod at the lump on the back of his head – the pain has dulled down, at least. Something present but not distracting. ]
Maybe wait till I’m not liable to trip over myself just standing, though.
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That wouldn't be enjoyable for either of us.
[ But she can wait. She's in no immediate rush, not with the things she still feels like she has to parse through for herself, the unfamiliarity of emotion that she doesn't truly have a name for, the uncertainty in the wake of the party.
(The ferocious response that reared its head today during the fight.)
She watches him prod at himself, more considering than with blatant concern. ]
I should let you return to resting, since I disturbed you in the first place.
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