nostalgiabomb | open post, vol. 2

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?

No, nothing. When he threw me into those crates, they were completely empty.

[ Other than the glass, and it had been empty.

She sighs, a frustrated huff of a noise. ]

Even if it is something, it will pass. My modifications will filter it out.

[ But moving to step away from Peter, she sways all over again, nearly losing her balance.

... Gamora never loses her balance. ]

Maybe just— particles? Maybe you inhaled something? Like—

[ But he’s quickly interrupted by the way she sways. He practically yelps out a startled, ]

Oh, shit—

[ And he reaches out on instinct, trying to steady her. ]

Edited 2017-08-04 18:00 (UTC)

[ Gamora catches herself on Peter's arms, wincing against the way her head just spins with the sudden rush of heat. ]

Damn it.

[ Though her voice is more of a growl as she reaches up to steady herself, one hand on Peter's arm still, the other brushing against the exposed skin at the collar of his shirt as she grips his shoulder. There's— something when she makes contact, something brief and warm all over again, though it seems there and gone again in an instant. ]

I'm— fine. It just caught me off guard.

[ "Fine," she says, despite how intense the temperature difference is between her and Peter now with the fever. ]

“Fine,” my ass.

[ The warmth of her palm against his neck is evidence enough, but he presses the back of his hand against her forehead all the same. Sure, he still has the data in front of him on the screen, but those are just numbers. The old back-of-the-hand test is tried and true, as far as Terran methods go. ]

What the hell, Gamora, you’re burning up.

[ He glances around, spots a chair nearby, and he nods her toward it. ]

Sit down for a sec, okay? We’re heading back. We need to get you checked out.

What? No.

[ She doesn't let go of him quite yet, her expression hardening. ]

I just told you my modifications will handle it. I do not want to go back.

[ And maybe that's a more intense reaction than is actually necessary, but through the haze of her frustration and the heat clouding her mind, it's somehow that much harder to tamp down on the aggravation bubbling up. ]

[ Uh.

That was worrying. Like, the last time he suggested Gamora go to a hospital, she had been reluctant, sure. She had told him it was unnecessary, told him it was a waste of time. It was nowhere near as vehement as this, though. ]

Gamora— [ As calmly as he can manage, and he tries to pull his arm out of her grip. The intercom is at the back of the room, and he’s pretty sure Kraglin is at the helm. Kraglin, at least, won’t put up much of a fuss about the change in plans, whereas Rocket would bitch and gripe about the waste of fuel to turn back to moon they’d just left. ]

You’re running a pretty bad fever. Maybe your mods will burn it out of you by the time a doc sees you, but I’d still rather be sure, alright?

It’s just business as usual.

[ That irritation flares in a rush of intense heat that burns behind Gamora's eyes, and her fingers tighten instead on Peter's arm. ]

I said no.

[ —and it comes in a tone that Gamora hasn't used with Peter in ages, more snarl than calm, and she suddenly realizes how brutally she was squeezing his arm until she lets go immediately, stumbling a step back from him.

She presses the heel of her hand to her eyes, grimacing down at the deck ]

I—

[ Okay. Okay. Maybe no more struggling, because ow.

Ow, ow, ow.

Peter tenses as her fingers squeeze around his arm like a vise, and he sucks in a startled breath at the tone of her voice. Hell, when’s the last time she’s talked to him like that, like he was an enemy instead of her friend? Like she might actually rip his throat out?

And just as quickly as it happens, she relents. Her grip disappears from her arm, the ferocity of her expression is replaced by confusion, and when she stumbles back, so does he. He rubs at his arm, wonders if he’ll sport a hand-shaped bruise in the next several hours, and he backs away toward the intercom. ]

Just sit down, alright? [ This, at least, he manages in that same calm voice. No fear, no warning, just worry. ] Look, I’m not trying to freak you out or anything, but there’s definitely something wrong, here.

[ This time, Gamora doesn't try to resist as he tells her to sit, and she's careful about lowering herself into a seat, blinking glassy eyes down at her hands. That haze feels thicker, hotter, and she flexes her fingers, forces herself to do it slowly – trying to exercise control, trying not to shake with the pent-up energy that accompanies the heat. The fever hasn't made her sluggish, and if anything, she feels the need to do— anything. To fight? To touch? To rend something to pieces? To not think about the warmth spreading through her mind—? ]

Nothing's— wrong.

[ No, no, something has to be wrong, because she knows she wouldn't grab Peter like that, wouldn't speak to him like that. ]

It— just needs to burn itself out.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject