[ 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. ]
[ She didn't even consider that one of the others might have to deal with this – whatever this is. ]
There was... something on the glass in those containers. I think.
[ She frowns as she tries to remember. ]
There were empty, but the glass was discolored.
[ Another wave of heat, and Gamora grimaces, getting to her feet suddenly with the need to move. She at least sets aside the water so she doesn't break it the next time her fingers clench and curl. ]
[ He turns to her as she speaks, that concern coming back in full force.
Worry makes his words sharp: ]
And you didn't think that was worth mentioning earlier?
[ Peter's about to launch into something of a lecture, for whatever that'll do either of them, when Gamora abruptly stands. He tenses, taken aback, before stepping toward her in case she needs support. ]
[ Though she says it with far more aggression than she means to. If the fever wasn't so distracting, she'd probably apologize.
As it stands, she's instead inclined to pace – some way to channel that strange energy, to turn it into more than the thrumming of it under her skin. ]
And I didn't mention it because whatever this is should have been filtered out. It shouldn't have—
[ She interrupts herself with a short growl, pressing her knuckles against her eyes as she pauses mid-step. ]
[ It's a good thing Peter's used to people snapping at him, which means her tone hardly bothers him. ]
Yeah, well. We might be dealing with some weird drug shit. Who knows what kind of chemicals that prick might've been messing with?
[ He watches her with an undisguised frown, that terribly familiar sense of helplessness and worry clawing up his throat. He swallows it down as much as he can, tries to tell himself that Gamora will be fine, that she's made to withstand worse things, as she always tells him. ]
C'mon. Drink some more water. Whatever this is, you obviously need to give yourself time to burn it out.
[ Gamora looks about ready to snap at Peter again that she doesn't need water, but through the haze of heat, she seems to realize he's just trying to help. ]
What do you think I'm trying to do?
[ ... Though she's still somewhat less successful in regards to the hostility.
But she reaches for the water she set aside instead, finishing it off – though more to satisfy him than because she's particularly thirsty. ]
[ He struggles for the words, then gives a vague wave of his hand. ]
—kinda freaking me out.
[ Because he spends a whole lot of his time seeing Gamora as indestructible, as the cool, calm, and collected one. And even if recent events have definitely conspired to wreck the "indestructible" label he had slapped on her – because shit has been scary lately – he still can't help but be shaken whenever he's reminded that she's just as mortal as anyone.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose again, eyes screwing shut against the headache blooming, before he turns to the intercom again. He sends out a ship-wide message – "Hey, uh. If anyone's not feeling well – like, if you're feeling feverish, I guess? – head to the medbay. Please." – and after a few moments, he receives a chorus of responses.
It seems everyone else is fine, which is something of a relief. They also all seem to assume it's Peter that's under the weather, which is probably fine, but it makes annoyance curl and snap in his gut.
He sighs when he gets off the line with Kraglin, who assures them they're on course to the medical facility, and that if he's not feeling so hot, he should take one of those awful-tasting pills and head to bed. Peter only grumbles a response as the line cuts, and he leans forward to press his forehead against the cool metal of the bulkhead.
At length, he turns back around, looking to Gamora. ]
Kraglin says we're nearly there. [ As if she couldn't hear everything already. ]
[ Gamora listens, however distantly, to Peter and the subsequent responses. It's reassuring, at least, to know that no one else is experiencing something like this (or it would be if she could focus on it), but she's more preoccupied with the heat swimming in her vision. ]
My hearing is still just fine, Peter.
[ Though she's taken the opportunity to lean against the counter, stopping her pacing as she tries for that slow, grounding breathing.
... It only works so much.
She also pulls the towel from the back of her neck, because it's already warmed through, and she drops it somewhat unceremoniously onto the counter beside her. ]
Just— come here.
[ She sounds far less steady than she did before, and when she raises her eyes to look at him, her pupils have almost completely swallowed up that ring of brown. ]
[ He studies her, taking in the details – the glassiness of her eyes, still, the flush in her skin, the agitation in her every move. And now, with the way her eyes are darkened, pupils blown wide, Peter feels worry ramping up into fear, starting to scrabble at the inside of his ribs for purchase.
The concern he's feeling is making him feel— weird, he thinks. Makes him feel jittery and agitated, and he needs to keep his head on. He forces it down, forces himself to stay calm, because that's how Gamora would treat a disaster like this. He takes a steadying breath, scrubbing his face with his hand.
He follows her direction, though, moving toward her with an undisguised frown. ]
[ Gamora blinks past the fever to focus on Peter as he comes close, and she reaches for his wrists. ]
Give me your hands.
[ Because he runs cooler than she does normally, and now, she can only assume the difference will be far starker than before. Through that strange haze, she knows she wants to touch him still, wants that contact, though she's mindful of the strength in her fingers as she moves to tug his hands up to her face (given that she doesn't want to leave further bruises).
[ But she turns her face against the coolness of his broad hands, sighing with relief. It settles something in that feverish heat, even as her heart pounds a little too fast, and she glances back up at him again. ]
It has to work its way through my system.
[ Whatever she came into contact with, she at least believes in her modifications and their ability to process this strange toxin – because finally, given how much it's overwhelmed her, her hazy mind is apparently willing to admit that this isn't right. ]
[ He swallows thickly, trying to force down that worry, that weird sense of helplessness that comes over him whenever someone on the team is hurt. Peter hopes she's right, because— man, the heat she's giving off is scary.
He brushes sweat-dampened hair from her forehead before returning his palm to her cheek. ]
[ It's weird, how she says that like a fact. "Water is wet. Fire is hot. I want you." He's caught somewhere between pleased and disbelieving for a second, and he feels warmth creep up neck, settle in his cheeks. Embarrassment, probably, and he huffs out an uneasy sort of laugh. ]
[ She glances up at him again, though she still keeps her face pressed against his palm. She shifts one hand from her cheek to press against the side of her neck, and it elicits another soft sigh of relief. ]
I mean that I want you.
[ His hands are nice, and that lowered temperature helps, but there's something about the insistence that makes it clear she isn't simply referring to this contact. ]
[ He swallows thickly, letting her move his hands where she wants them, and part of him thinks this is patently unfair, that she's only saying shit like this when her filter is clearly on the fritz.
Gamora probably doesn't mean what he thinks she means. And more than that, she probably doesn't mean what she thinks she means, because whatever toxin or strange substance she's dealing with right now is making her weird.
Something tugs in him, though, something makes him want to surge forward, to move his hands along her exposed skin, to slip his fingers beneath the loose collar of her – his – shirt, to map out the contours of her body—
It's— suddenly a lot warmer in here, isn't it? And now he's seriously lamenting the choice of a long-sleeved shirt.
He swallows, gaze darting to a nearby cabinet. ]
Maybe, we, uh. Ought to just— sit here. Quietly. [ So no one says anything they might regret. ]
[ He's not looking at her anymore, and through that haze of heat, she's— confused by it. Did she say something wrong?
She moves his hand once more, resting his palm against the tendon where her neck meets her shoulder (exposed thanks to the low dip of that t-shirt she's borrowed), and again, his skin is still cool in comparison to her own. She turns his other hand to rest his knuckles against her cheek in search of another cool surface. ]
Why? [ She frowns, cocking her head slightly as she considers him. ]
Do you not want me?
[ ... Though maybe it's a failing of that foggy warmth that she doesn't specify what capacity she means it in – both the question itself and what she'd just said. ]
[ Gamora moves his hands again, and his gaze is drawn back to her, to where his calloused hands rest against her smooth skin. He's staring. He knows he's staring. But he can't stop—
He winces at her question, unsure of what to say – because everything in him is screaming, God, of course I want you, what the fuck kind of question even is that? Yes, yes, yes—
He swallows thickly against the words trying to burst from him, against the heat creeping up his neck, pooling in his cheeks, coloring his ears. Embarrassment, he thinks. And— that familiar note of want, the kind that sends him to seedy clubs with thumping music and people looking to waste away the night and— ]
Of course I want you.
[ —the words escape him anyway. Rough, croaked out. He feels his heart slam against his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears, and—
No. No, okay. This isn't fair to either of them. Gamora's sick. There's something that's not letting her think straight, and Peter needs to rein it in for both of them.
... He thinks that, anyway, but his knuckles run over her cheek, thumb brushing over the silver lines at the swell. It's a second before he realizes what he's doing, and he carefully pulls his hand away. ]
This— [ Shit, they still need to talk about them. They still need to figure out what the hell they're doing. They still need to sit down and hash out what, exactly, they mean to each other, but it's really, really, really hard to concentrate with their bare skin touching, with Gamora looking at him like that, with just a few breaths of space separating them. ]
We— we need— [ Haltingly, because it's really fucking difficult to string words together, for some reason. ] We still need to talk. About us.
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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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Oof. That's a little intimidating. ]
Just— maybe one of the others is running a fever, too. They might not even realize it. Something in the air? Some kinda residue?
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There was... something on the glass in those containers. I think.
[ She frowns as she tries to remember. ]
There were empty, but the glass was discolored.
[ Another wave of heat, and Gamora grimaces, getting to her feet suddenly with the need to move. She at least sets aside the water so she doesn't break it the next time her fingers clench and curl. ]
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Worry makes his words sharp: ]
And you didn't think that was worth mentioning earlier?
[ Peter's about to launch into something of a lecture, for whatever that'll do either of them, when Gamora abruptly stands. He tenses, taken aback, before stepping toward her in case she needs support. ]
Dude. What're you doing? Sit back down.
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[ Though she says it with far more aggression than she means to. If the fever wasn't so distracting, she'd probably apologize.
As it stands, she's instead inclined to pace – some way to channel that strange energy, to turn it into more than the thrumming of it under her skin. ]
And I didn't mention it because whatever this is should have been filtered out. It shouldn't have—
[ She interrupts herself with a short growl, pressing her knuckles against her eyes as she pauses mid-step. ]
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Yeah, well. We might be dealing with some weird drug shit. Who knows what kind of chemicals that prick might've been messing with?
[ He watches her with an undisguised frown, that terribly familiar sense of helplessness and worry clawing up his throat. He swallows it down as much as he can, tries to tell himself that Gamora will be fine, that she's made to withstand worse things, as she always tells him. ]
C'mon. Drink some more water. Whatever this is, you obviously need to give yourself time to burn it out.
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What do you think I'm trying to do?
[ ... Though she's still somewhat less successful in regards to the hostility.
But she reaches for the water she set aside instead, finishing it off – though more to satisfy him than because she's particularly thirsty. ]
Shouldn't— you check on the others?
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[ He struggles for the words, then gives a vague wave of his hand. ]
—kinda freaking me out.
[ Because he spends a whole lot of his time seeing Gamora as indestructible, as the cool, calm, and collected one. And even if recent events have definitely conspired to wreck the "indestructible" label he had slapped on her – because shit has been scary lately – he still can't help but be shaken whenever he's reminded that she's just as mortal as anyone.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose again, eyes screwing shut against the headache blooming, before he turns to the intercom again. He sends out a ship-wide message – "Hey, uh. If anyone's not feeling well – like, if you're feeling feverish, I guess? – head to the medbay. Please." – and after a few moments, he receives a chorus of responses.
It seems everyone else is fine, which is something of a relief. They also all seem to assume it's Peter that's under the weather, which is probably fine, but it makes annoyance curl and snap in his gut.
He sighs when he gets off the line with Kraglin, who assures them they're on course to the medical facility, and that if he's not feeling so hot, he should take one of those awful-tasting pills and head to bed. Peter only grumbles a response as the line cuts, and he leans forward to press his forehead against the cool metal of the bulkhead.
At length, he turns back around, looking to Gamora. ]
Kraglin says we're nearly there. [ As if she couldn't hear everything already. ]
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My hearing is still just fine, Peter.
[ Though she's taken the opportunity to lean against the counter, stopping her pacing as she tries for that slow, grounding breathing.
... It only works so much.
She also pulls the towel from the back of her neck, because it's already warmed through, and she drops it somewhat unceremoniously onto the counter beside her. ]
Just— come here.
[ She sounds far less steady than she did before, and when she raises her eyes to look at him, her pupils have almost completely swallowed up that ring of brown. ]
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The concern he's feeling is making him feel— weird, he thinks. Makes him feel jittery and agitated, and he needs to keep his head on. He forces it down, forces himself to stay calm, because that's how Gamora would treat a disaster like this. He takes a steadying breath, scrubbing his face with his hand.
He follows her direction, though, moving toward her with an undisguised frown. ]
What do you need?
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Give me your hands.
[ Because he runs cooler than she does normally, and now, she can only assume the difference will be far starker than before. Through that strange haze, she knows she wants to touch him still, wants that contact, though she's mindful of the strength in her fingers as she moves to tug his hands up to her face (given that she doesn't want to leave further bruises).
Better than a wet towel, at least. ]
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That's a really weird request. ]
Uh.
[ He lets her guide his hands, though, and he winces at the unnatural heat coming off her as his palms rest against her cheeks. ]
Shit, Gamora. [ Murmured, eyebrows knitting together. ] This is getting pretty bad...
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[ But she turns her face against the coolness of his broad hands, sighing with relief. It settles something in that feverish heat, even as her heart pounds a little too fast, and she glances back up at him again. ]
It has to work its way through my system.
[ Whatever she came into contact with, she at least believes in her modifications and their ability to process this strange toxin – because finally, given how much it's overwhelmed her, her hazy mind is apparently willing to admit that this isn't right. ]
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He brushes sweat-dampened hair from her forehead before returning his palm to her cheek. ]
You sure a towel wouldn't do this job better?
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[ She says it matter-of-factly, though it lacks some of that growl from before. ]
I want you.
[ And that must be some of the fever, at this point, but it's no less honest as she relishes the coolness against her face. ]
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You mean you want my lower body temperature.
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[ She glances up at him again, though she still keeps her face pressed against his palm. She shifts one hand from her cheek to press against the side of her neck, and it elicits another soft sigh of relief. ]
I mean that I want you.
[ His hands are nice, and that lowered temperature helps, but there's something about the insistence that makes it clear she isn't simply referring to this contact. ]
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[ He swallows thickly, letting her move his hands where she wants them, and part of him thinks this is patently unfair, that she's only saying shit like this when her filter is clearly on the fritz.
Gamora probably doesn't mean what he thinks she means. And more than that, she probably doesn't mean what she thinks she means, because whatever toxin or strange substance she's dealing with right now is making her weird.
Something tugs in him, though, something makes him want to surge forward, to move his hands along her exposed skin, to slip his fingers beneath the loose collar of her – his – shirt, to map out the contours of her body—
It's— suddenly a lot warmer in here, isn't it? And now he's seriously lamenting the choice of a long-sleeved shirt.
He swallows, gaze darting to a nearby cabinet. ]
Maybe, we, uh. Ought to just— sit here. Quietly. [ So no one says anything they might regret. ]
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She moves his hand once more, resting his palm against the tendon where her neck meets her shoulder (exposed thanks to the low dip of that t-shirt she's borrowed), and again, his skin is still cool in comparison to her own. She turns his other hand to rest his knuckles against her cheek in search of another cool surface. ]
Why? [ She frowns, cocking her head slightly as she considers him. ]
Do you not want me?
[ ... Though maybe it's a failing of that foggy warmth that she doesn't specify what capacity she means it in – both the question itself and what she'd just said. ]
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He winces at her question, unsure of what to say – because everything in him is screaming, God, of course I want you, what the fuck kind of question even is that? Yes, yes, yes—
He swallows thickly against the words trying to burst from him, against the heat creeping up his neck, pooling in his cheeks, coloring his ears. Embarrassment, he thinks. And— that familiar note of want, the kind that sends him to seedy clubs with thumping music and people looking to waste away the night and— ]
Of course I want you.
[ —the words escape him anyway. Rough, croaked out. He feels his heart slam against his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears, and—
No. No, okay. This isn't fair to either of them. Gamora's sick. There's something that's not letting her think straight, and Peter needs to rein it in for both of them.
... He thinks that, anyway, but his knuckles run over her cheek, thumb brushing over the silver lines at the swell. It's a second before he realizes what he's doing, and he carefully pulls his hand away. ]
This— [ Shit, they still need to talk about them. They still need to figure out what the hell they're doing. They still need to sit down and hash out what, exactly, they mean to each other, but it's really, really, really hard to concentrate with their bare skin touching, with Gamora looking at him like that, with just a few breaths of space separating them. ]
We— we need— [ Haltingly, because it's really fucking difficult to string words together, for some reason. ] We still need to talk. About us.
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what the fuck i never got this notif....
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