[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
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?
[ 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 ]
[ 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. ]
[ He pauses at her objection, the word bullshit materializing briefly on his tongue.
But that's not going to help anything, he knows, and instead, he lets out a slow breath. ]
Probably.
[ Agreement again, even if it's a lie on Peter's part, because he's worried as hell. That was weird. That was out of character. Gamora is usually so calm and collected, and maybe she got pissed sometimes, but she hasn't gotten pissed like that at anyone on the team since—
Since Knowhere, probably. And that feels like years ago.
He makes it to the intercom, finally, hailing the flight deck. Kraglin answers, surprise in his voice – probably startled to see a message coming from the medbay. ]
Turn us back. Head for the nearest medical facility.
[ There's a beat of silence, but a slight lurch of the ship tells Peter that Kraglin has followed the order without argument (and a part of Peter is gratified that someone listens to him on this damn team). ]
Everythin' alright, Pete?
Yeah. [ He pauses, wondering how much he ought to share. He frowns a little, then, for Gamora's sake, decides to keep the information under wraps for now. ] Just a precaution. Sooner the better though, Krag.
Aye, Cap'n.
[ The line shuts, and Peter frowns as he turns back to Gamora, rubbing at the back of his neck. He walks cautiously toward her, movements careful like he doesn't want to startle her. ]
[ Distantly, Gamora hears Peter telling Kraglin to turn the ship around, that he leaves out the details (good, because she's fine, nothing is wrong, and whatever it is will resolve itself, it's fine), and if she had the presence of mind for it, she'd be grateful.
As it is, one of her hands keeps flexing her fingers, the other pressing momentarily against her eyes. ]
—Fine.
[ Ground out through grit teeth, and she swallows around the tightening in her throat. She forces her breathing to slow, careful about the way she curls and uncurls her fingers, and then she looks back up at Peter. Her eyes are glassier, her pupils dilated, but she sets her jaw with that determination to overrule the overwhelming heat. ]
[ Jesus Christ, she doesn't look good, and a look of dismay crosses his face.
(It's so painfully familiar, that glassy-eyed look, that strange resolution to pretend that everything is just fine, Peter, just fine.)
He swallows thickly, turning toward the sink in the corner. He wets a towel with cold water, fills a glass, and brings both over to her, kneeling in front of her. ]
Not long.
[ A pause, and he tries for reassurance, ]
By the time we get there, you'll probably be recovered, huh?
[ She refocuses on Peter, watching him busy himself with the sink, but she's relieved when he comes over with the glass and the towel at the ready.
She reaches first for the wet towel, immediately chilled against her fingers. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder to set it on the back of her neck (though she gives a short hiss at the intense difference in temperature), and then she goes for the water. ]
Don't look so concerned.
[Mumbled around the lip of the glass. She's trying for reassurance, but it doesn't have quite the same effect when there's still something of a growl in her voice. ]
[ Peter. Peter is concerned. Even if he tries to smooth out his expression and force it out of his voice.
Even if he still hears that dangerous sort of edge in her voice, the sort of restrained snarl he hasn't heard directed at him since the shit with the Infinity Stone.
He rocks back, sitting on the deck and frowning at her. ]
Must've been something at the warehouse.
[ As much to her as it is to himself. He rubs the bridge of his nose, feels the start of a headache building behind his eyes, and he gets to his feet again. ]
[ Despite the raging haze of heat that keeps trying to pull her attention, Gamora focuses wholly on Peter as she takes a few more sips of water. She straightens up slightly in her chair as he gets to his feet, and concern seems like it's doing its best to fight its way through agitation. ]
What does that mean?
[ Through that fog, she wants to focus on Peter, even with all that prickling energy that she's keeping in check (or, still trying to, at least).
The glass in her hands creaks in protest as she squeezes a little too much, and she finally eases up before it breaks. ]
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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.
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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? ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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?
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(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? ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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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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[ 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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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.
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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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—
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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.
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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.
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But that's not going to help anything, he knows, and instead, he lets out a slow breath. ]
Probably.
[ Agreement again, even if it's a lie on Peter's part, because he's worried as hell. That was weird. That was out of character. Gamora is usually so calm and collected, and maybe she got pissed sometimes, but she hasn't gotten pissed like that at anyone on the team since—
Since Knowhere, probably. And that feels like years ago.
He makes it to the intercom, finally, hailing the flight deck. Kraglin answers, surprise in his voice – probably startled to see a message coming from the medbay. ]
Turn us back. Head for the nearest medical facility.
[ There's a beat of silence, but a slight lurch of the ship tells Peter that Kraglin has followed the order without argument (and a part of Peter is gratified that someone listens to him on this damn team). ]
Everythin' alright, Pete?
Yeah. [ He pauses, wondering how much he ought to share. He frowns a little, then, for Gamora's sake, decides to keep the information under wraps for now. ] Just a precaution. Sooner the better though, Krag.
Aye, Cap'n.
[ The line shuts, and Peter frowns as he turns back to Gamora, rubbing at the back of his neck. He walks cautiously toward her, movements careful like he doesn't want to startle her. ]
You alright?
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As it is, one of her hands keeps flexing her fingers, the other pressing momentarily against her eyes. ]
—Fine.
[ Ground out through grit teeth, and she swallows around the tightening in her throat. She forces her breathing to slow, careful about the way she curls and uncurls her fingers, and then she looks back up at Peter. Her eyes are glassier, her pupils dilated, but she sets her jaw with that determination to overrule the overwhelming heat. ]
... How soon until we return?
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(It's so painfully familiar, that glassy-eyed look, that strange resolution to pretend that everything is just fine, Peter, just fine.)
He swallows thickly, turning toward the sink in the corner. He wets a towel with cold water, fills a glass, and brings both over to her, kneeling in front of her. ]
Not long.
[ A pause, and he tries for reassurance, ]
By the time we get there, you'll probably be recovered, huh?
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[ She refocuses on Peter, watching him busy himself with the sink, but she's relieved when he comes over with the glass and the towel at the ready.
She reaches first for the wet towel, immediately chilled against her fingers. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder to set it on the back of her neck (though she gives a short hiss at the intense difference in temperature), and then she goes for the water. ]
Don't look so concerned.
[Mumbled around the lip of the glass. She's trying for reassurance, but it doesn't have quite the same effect when there's still something of a growl in her voice. ]
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[ Peter. Peter is concerned. Even if he tries to smooth out his expression and force it out of his voice.
Even if he still hears that dangerous sort of edge in her voice, the sort of restrained snarl he hasn't heard directed at him since the shit with the Infinity Stone.
He rocks back, sitting on the deck and frowning at her. ]
Must've been something at the warehouse.
[ As much to her as it is to himself. He rubs the bridge of his nose, feels the start of a headache building behind his eyes, and he gets to his feet again. ]
Might not be just you, either.
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What does that mean?
[ Through that fog, she wants to focus on Peter, even with all that prickling energy that she's keeping in check (or, still trying to, at least).
The glass in her hands creaks in protest as she squeezes a little too much, and she finally eases up before it breaks. ]
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what the fuck i never got this notif....
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