nostalgiabomb | open post, vol. 2

[ The way back to the ship is— weirdly tense, if only to Peter. He's not sure why he's getting that impression, falling into an easy back and forth with Kraglin. Peter may be Kraglin's captain, now, but Kraglin will always be something like Peter's shitty older brother, and the two of them tease and dig at each other. Kraglin punches him in the arm, and Peter gets the guy into a headlock for his troubles, and all the while Rocket rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Ravagers."

Eventually their rowdiness dies down once they're aboard the Milano, and Peter slips into his customary seat at the helm. Peter feels his skin itching – that telltale sign that he's being watched. He stiffens a little, glancing around, and—

He catches Gamora's gaze, blinking at the way her eyes bore into him. His lips part to ask, "What's wrong?" but her gaze darts away. And, okay, probably not the best idea to call her out in front of the rest of the crew, so he lets it slide, trusting that if something was wrong, she'd come to him.

Hopefully, anyway.

They dock the ship in the Quadrant's hangar, and everyone files off in search of their own methods of decompressing.

Well, everyone but Gamora, who remains in her usual seat, and Peter lets out a breath, standing from his seat. ]

Hey.

[ Softly, trying not to startle her too badly out of whatever reverie she's caught in. ]

You alright?

[ She immediately refocuses at the sound of Peter's voice, and her attention flickers away from that strange middle distance to glance back at him. ]

... I'm fine.

[ She forces a slow exhale, low and steady, before she pulls herself up from her seat. But that intense look is still in her eyes, her heart beating that much quicker in her chest as she stands so close to Peter, within arms' reach. ]

That just didn't go as planned.

[ When did anything ever, though?

Her fingers flex at her side, and she has to stop herself from taking a step closer to him, to stop from reaching out – because where did that urge come from? She wants to touch him, wants that contact they had back at the motel, though it's so sudden, accompanying something almost like a— headrush, Peter's called it.

She walks across the deck, then just halts with the slightest accompanying sway. ]

[ Peter can't help but huff out a laugh. ]

Do they ever?

[ He rubs at his shoulder, feels the bruises settling along his back. It's not everyday that Peter gets tackled through a wall, and even if Cryon took the brunt of it, Peter knows he's going to be sore as hell come tomorrow.

When she steps closer to him, he frowns, notices the strange way she sways. That's— not really normal, he thinks. ]

... You sure you're alright?

[ Gamora tries to brush aside that concern with a short shake of her head, forcing herself to steady. ]

I said I'm fine.

[ She just needs to brush whatever this is off, clearly. It'll pass, and her system will normalize, like it always does.

So instead, she nods towards his shoulder, the way he rubs at it. ]

And you? That was a much more serious hit to take.

[ Peter isn't entirely convinced she's fine, as she says – but he knows she can be just as stubborn as he is. In all likelihood, she won't admit something's wrong until she's stumbling down a corridor.

At her question, it's his turn to shake his head. ]

Cryon absorbed most of the hit. I just went for a ride.

[ He lets his hand drop, head tilting to the ladder leading to the main deck. ]

We both could use some rest, I figure. We oughta head in.

[ Behind the vague haze still clinging to the edges of her awareness, Gamora is willing to concede that they should settle in for a bit – while making a mental note to see about getting ice for Peter the next day for his inevitable bruises.

She nods, then heads for the ladder. Maybe it's her practiced balance that keeps her level as she climbs down from the ship, but this time, she doesn't waver or misstep, and she glances back at Peter evenly. ]

If you happen to have anything clean to wear, I'm going to borrow that.

[ ... And there she goes assuming she's headed straight for Peter's room. As usual.

She could stop by her own bunk, change as she always has been, but that's one more stop than she feels inclined to make with that still-present agitation and... fuzziness? Is that the best way to describe it? ]

[ Peter watches her carefully as she moves, as she climbs down the ladder. She seems better, now, and that strange sway that had accompanied her earlier seems to have disappeared. He frowns a little, wonders if he imagined it, but when she glances up to him, he’s careful to wipe that uncertainty away. ]

— Wait, what?

[ No, he heard what she said, even if he doesn’t understand it immediately. When it finally clicks, he blinks, breathes out a quiet, ]

Oh. Uh.

[ And his brain quickly short-circuits with the mental image of Gamora in one of his shirts.

They really need to talk about this. About them. And the reminder brushes away that blissful little cloud.

He clears his throat, climbing down after her. ]

You sure you don’t wanna stop off at your room first? [ Since that’s usually what she does. ]

[ That haze of irritation makes itself known all over again, and for some reason, the idea of leaving Peter even long enough to change in her own bunk doesn't sound appealing. She wants to be close, she wants to be near him, she wants—

—her hands to be all over him—

She frowns at the suddenness of the impulse, and she shakes it away quickly. ]

No. [ Decisive, simple. ] Unless everything you own needs to be washed, but I trust you at least have one clean shirt.

[ And she's geared so much towards that decisiveness that she's already heading out of the docks towards Peter's quarters, expecting him to follow. ]

[ He’s about to let out a sheepish sort of laugh, about to murmur, “Uh, yeah, I’m sure there’s at least... one...” but she marches off with far more purpose than usual. He blinks at her retreating back, hurrying to keep up. ]

What’s the rush?

[ On something of a laugh, if only to mask his unease. ]

Rush?

[ Is there a rush? No, not beyond that swimming in her head and the heat prickling at the back of her neck.

But she plucks at the shoulder of her shirt, covered in spots of blood and remaining rips from the shards of glass in those crates. ]

I just want to change out of this.

[ He frowns a little, and— okay. Yeah. That makes sense. They’re both kind of a mess, admittedly, and dust still clings to his own shoulders from his trip through the wall in the warehouse. He certainly can’t blame her for wanting to get cleaned up.

As long as that’s all it is, and he keeps flipping back to those few seconds when she swayed slightly on her feet in the flight deck. An injury she’s hiding, maybe? An injury she doesn’t even know about? He’ll have to keep an eye on her. ]

... Alright. [ Still with that touch of doubt, even as he tries to conceal it. He figures Gamora would just get pissed at him if he admitted he didn’t quite believe her.

They pass by a few of the others on their way to Peter’s bunk – and Mantis and Drax give them strange looks as he and Gamora wander past. Something knowing, something even a little wistful, and Peter staunchly ignores them both. He’s glad, once they reach the safety of the captain’s quarters, and he lets Gamora enter first. It’s a mess, as it always is, but shockingly, he’s done laundry recently – though he hasn’t quite reached the point where he’s actually put his clothing away. The clean clothes still sit in a chaotic pile in the basket on one of the couches.

Peter shrugs out of his coat, still standing beside the door. Thanks to weeks of practice, Peter tosses his coat onto the back of one of the overstuffed seats. He’s in the middle of scrubbing dust out of his hair as he nods Gamora toward the laundry basket. ]

Help yourself, I guess.

[ It's odd, but Gamora barely even registers Mantis and Drax when they pass by them in the hall. She doesn't pay them so much as a cursory glance, where normally she might find herself at least mildly perturbed by the looks on their faces (because that knowingness is somehow more confident than Gamora is about whatever it is hanging between her and Peter).

Fortunately, the captain's quarters aren't much farther than that. As usual, the messiness of Peter's room doesn't faze her – if only because he hasn't quite reached the point of too messy; she'd lived through the disaster that the Milano had become after housing them all in such enclosed space for so long.

She nods in vague acknowledgment as she heads over to his laundry. Picking through it doesn't take long, and she eventually ends up plucking out a black short-sleeved shirt, because it will do just as well as anything else. It's all going to be far too big for her, considering how broad Peter is, but it's undeniably better than the bloody, ripped thing she's still wearing.

Rubbing a hand briefly over her eyes (and definitely forgetting a "thank you"), she retreats to the private bathroom to change. She abandons her old shirt in favor of Peter's, and, as expected, it's huge on her, but the fabric feels soft and cool against her skin (because is she warmer than usual? No, surely not.). She looks at herself in the mirror for a moment, Peter's shirt hanging off of one of her shoulders. She tugs gently at the hem, fingers curling and uncurling in the material before she slips a hair tie from her pocket to secure her hair away from her face.

It's noticeably warmer in Peter's room than she remembers it being, and maybe she'll ask him to turn down the heat, but— instead, she's preoccupied with wandering back out to find him instead.

The temperature is far less of a concern.

She leaves the bathroom, at least getting as far as the doorframe before she just leans against it, looking out at Peter. ]

... Peter.

[ Her voice is a little quieter, but— ]

Come here.

[ Tentative, though not phrased as a question. ]

[ ... Okay. Gamora’s silence isn’t exactly out of character, and her lack of thanks isn’t unexpected, but Peter watches her come and go with a concerned look, all the same. When she slips into the bathroom, shirt in hand, all of his fantasies of her clad only in his clothing are soured by the worry he still feels.

He frowns, shaking his head, before tugging off his own shirt, tossing it away to join his dirty jacket. He plucks out a clean shirt from the basket, tugging it on; it’s a wrinkled mess, but at least it’s clean. He considers contacting one of the others, asking if they noticed anything off about Gamora while he was dealing with the Nova officials. Maybe someone else saw something, or maybe someone else can reassure him that he’s just imagining things, that he’s being his usual worrywart-self.

Peter’s just a twitch away from calling up Rocket, but he hears the door to the bathroom slide open. He glances over his shoulder, and—

Oh.

Yeah. Okay. Uh.

(That’s a mental image getting filed away for later.)

He blinks at her, and for a second, he almost doesn’t realize she’s called for him. Thankfully, her suggestion (order?) reminds him that words are a thing, and he licks his lips, taking only a step to close the space between them. ]

You alright?

[ She frowns slightly, because clearly, that's not close enough. Instead, she pushes away from the doorframe, intent on closing that gap between them until she can reach out, curl fingers into his shirt and yank at the fabric, like she means to pull him even closer. ]

How many times will I have to tell you that I'm fine?

[ She's fine; everything is just... warm.

And it seems to... swim ever so slightly.

But whatever it is is clearly not concerning enough, because she's much more focused on him in that moment, and it's like she's completely forgotten about the conversation they need to have that's kept things... careful since after the motel and N'Calo. ]

[ Even in the dim light of the room, Peter notices that slight unsteadiness of her gait, the flush in her cheeks, the glassiness of her eyes. He frowns at her, rocking onto his back foot and putting up both hands. ]

You don’t look fine.

[ Softly, worry naked in his voice. ]

Maybe we should get you to the infirmary. I mean, that was a pretty nasty fall you took back there. You might have a concussion or something.

[ She can see, somewhere, that he's worried about her, and it's hard to really understand why he would be.

She sighs at him, like he's being absurd. ]

I wouldn't be affected by a concussion, Peter. Look—

[ She lifts her arm to show him where the glass from the crates had sliced her open – and the skin is almost entirely unaffected. ]

These have healed, and if— [ If, being the keyword. ] —I had a concussion or another injury like it, it would have resolved itself.

I'm fine.

[ That sigh is familiar, and it quells some of his anxiety, at least. His gaze flicks to her arm, and— okay. Yes. Her wounds have healed, but there’s still something off. Something not quite Gamora. Maybe months and months ago he wouldn’t have noticed, but he’s spent enough time around her by now that he just knows.

There’s something wrong. He can feel it in his gut – and Yondu had always taught him to trust his instincts. ]

Did you— touch something? Inhale something? [ Because they were in a warehouse filled to the rafters with drugs. Maybe she’s having a weird reaction to trace remnants of Dust? ]

[ More of that unimpressed look manages itself through the haze of warmth that clings to her. ]

I touched nothing. I inhaled nothing. [ She says it blandly, like it's perfect fact.

(Well, other than the crates she fell into, but the glass was empty; she saw for herself.) ]

And if I had, my body would have filtered it out, the same way it does alcohol and any other toxins I encounter. I was made to withstand poisons of all kinds, Peter. What sort of weapon would I have been if I couldn't handle biological inhibitors? [ Her lips press into a thin line as she says it, and she crosses her arms over her chest, that strange heat prickling with irritation instead of that urge to touch him when he stays just out of reach. ]

[ Well, if she puts it like that, it's harder and harder to explain that strangeness he senses.

It's not like he can come out and say, "I feel like something is wrong, even if you're not saying so, and I always learn to trust my gut when it's screaming at me that I need to fix something."

Because she'll just come out and say he's being ridiculous, that he's seriously weird, and maybe she'd be right, but he still has that inkling of wrongness that nags at the back of his head. ]

Could you just— humor me?

[ A little lamely, as he rocks back, moving toward the door. ]

It'll be quick, okay? Ten, fifteen minutes. Tops. Then we can get some sleep.

[ Gamora looks about ready to turn him down, to brush it all aside like she's been trying to do this entire time, but beyond that clouding influence, something tells her to just— listen to him for a moment.

Indulge him.

And so instead, she sighs again, uncrossing her arms and waving vaguely to the door of his quarters. ]

Fine, but make it quick. Then you will see you're fussing over nothing.

[ And, reluctantly, she follows him to head to the infirmary. ]

[ He lets out an audible sigh of relief when she finally relents, and he waves away her complaint with a gesture.

They head to the infirmary without incident, at least, and without prying eyes; even if they had run into anyone, though, Peter figures he'd save them both some face and tell whoever they passed that Gamora was going to check him over, make sure his jaunt through the wall back at the warehouse didn't actually break a rib.

But the lie goes untold, and he's relieved for that, too.

The nice thing about the Quadrant compared to the Milano is that the medical equipment is actually worth a damn. It would've been better on the Eclector, of course, but considering that ship was blasted to bits, Peter will take what he can get. He heads over to a panel in the bulkhead, slides out a device that looks like little more than a slightly opaque acrylic panel, a foot or two taller than Peter. A quick swipe brings it to life, and text and diagrams appear on the screen. ]

Stand over there?

[ He's not going to get too many complaints from her (because unlike Peter, those are far from her strong suit), and she follows directions well enough to take her place on the other side of the panel. With one hand at her hip, Peter's shirt still slipping off of her shoulder, she gives him an unimpressed look.

(Though that could probably count as a complaint on its own, but that's beside the point.) ]

You won't find anything.

[ Even if the infirmary is also strangely warmer than it should be.

Maybe it's the entire ship itself? ]

Yeah. Probably.

[ And he answers it back mildly, distractedly, as he types through a few commands. It's been a while since he's had to use this thing, but he sort of remembers how to do the basics – standard vitals checks, bone structure scans, shit like that. He can skip the medical imaging, at least, considering Gamora's accelerated healing. He muddles his way through it, because he knows the chance of finding a manual on this ship is slim to none, and after a few minutes, he gets the basic scan working.

It all comes up normal, and he frowns.

— Wait, no, not normal. A tiny blip, indicating a raised temperature.

Peter runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, peering around the screen. That would definitely explain the unsteadiness he saw earlier, and the flush, and the glassiness in her eyes. ]

You're running a fever. [ A statement, not a question, and for once, Peter would like to revel in being right. ]

[ Still standing, still waiting, and she's prepared for an "I told you so," except— ]

What?

[ She doesn't remember the last time she had a fever. Years, it's had to have been, but she comes around the side of the panel to get a look at the readings. ]

That has to be a mistake.

[ But... maybe that would explain the warmth running through her. How everything feels overly hot and her head just— swims. ]

[ He obligingly moves to one side, giving her space, and he taps on the damning little bit of information, bringing up the detailed information. ]

See? [ Does he sound smug?

... Maybe a little. ] Fever.

Are you sure you didn’t come into contact with something? What if you’re having a weird reaction to something from the warehouse?

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