[ He groans against her as her nails score her back – not enough to hurt, but enough to feel, and heat surges through to his gut, screams through his veins. Her hands on his back, the warmth of her palms against his already blazing skin, leaves him dizzy, leaves him, breathless, wanting. He bites at her neck, teeth grazing the tendon, easing it away with a swipe of his tongue.
And when she says his name like that, rough and filled with desire, he lets out another moan.
He wants— needs— wants— needs— more. It shrieks through every nerve, every fiber of his being demanding contact, like he needs to be touched, that he needs to touch, and he can hardly help the way his hands explore her skin, like they move of their own accord.
He pulls himself away, readying himself to lift Gamora onto the counter, but when he pulls back, his head swims, the room sways, and grunts out a startled sound, his hands leaving Gamora to catch himself on the edge of the counter, to press against his brow. He screws his eyes shut against the spinning of the room, and once everything settles, he goes right back to kissing Gamora.
Apparently this need has burned that sense of self-preservation right out of him. ]
[ That bite reminds her all the more that the roughness is so very much up her alley, and she moans with it, arching against him, nearly trembling with it as that flash of not-quite-pain feeds into the burning in her head, her blood, pooling between her legs—
God, if her heart wasn't already about to pound right out of her chest, it just might now.
A growl of protest catches behind her teeth when he pulls away, even though she realizes what he's about to do, but— he nearly falls against her, and really, if she was more coherent, she'd have immediately brought this to a complete halt to check on him. Unfortunately, she's easily distracted by his lips pressing to hers, by the reinitiation of heat and contact. ]
Need— you, Peter—
[ His name again, words spilling against his lips in a husky, low tone, breaking on another moan as she grabs at every part of him she can reach.
It's too hot, too much, and she feels like she's going to melt right out of her skin, but she can't— stop. Whatever this is, whatever fuels it, makes it impossible to sort through the fever to rationality, and all she knows is that as long as Peter keeps touching her, she can deal with it (that she doesn't want it to end).
But as fixated as she is, she's shaking, fingers unsteady and uncoordinated as they slide down his sides, around his stomach to reach for his pants. It's easy to pass it off as that overeagerness, that desperation to get closer, to get more (while almost completely forgetting to abandon her own clothes yet), because the slip of her usually-dextrous fingers doesn't faze her in the slightest. ]
[ Fuck, the way she says his name is like fucking music, and if he were in a better place for it, he'd appreciate it, he'd revel in it, he'd grin and laugh with it.
For now, he lets out another low noise, almost a growl, as she pulls him in closer, as her hands rove over his body. And he does the same for her, the material of her (his) shirt loose enough on her lithe frame that he can move it aside without a fuss as he explores her skin. (she's burning up, a distant, almost buried voice reminds him. this is a problem.) Her fingers slide across his overheated skin, leave trails like fire, and when she fumbles at his belt, he groans against her lips. He can't help the way he moves against her, hips shifting as need buzzes through him—
Or— or maybe that's an actual buzzer. A shrill noise from the intercom sounding over and over, trying to get their attention, interspersed with a gruff voice shouting Peter's name with growing impatience. Peter pulls away for a second, startled by the noise, stunned and dazed and split on what to do. ]
[ The voice, however, is not saying Gamora's name, and it's definitely not Peter trying to get her attention, so she doesn't care. If anything, the noise out of her is more impatience, aggravation when Peter pulls away, and she instead presses her lips to his throat, teeth and tongue and persistence, wanting him to focus on her again, to stay engaged and keep feeding that fire.
Except—
She can't find purchase with his belt. She can't make her fingers work enough to figure out the catch, and that shaking has spread deeper into her bones, her muscles finally starting to wane in protest. Her knees buckle as bright spots fill her vision, and the heat, the heat— ]
Peter—?
[ But this time, his name comes on confusion, distress, her throat too tight as her next breath takes even more effort.
... Staying upright is about to become very difficult. ]
[ Okay. Okay, what the fuck, that's distracting, Gamora, and—
That voice from the intercom – Kraglin's voice, Peter thinks, but does it matter? – practically shouting, now, worry and irritation edging into his voice.
"Pete, I swear to god, if you don't answer me right the hell now—"
Peter makes an irritated sound of his own, turning back toward Gamora to pick up where they left off, except— except her hands are slipping away, except she's swaying dangerously, except—
The way she says his name this time cuts straight through the fog, and that worry (that fear) from earlier makes him suck in a sharp breath. ]
Oh, shit—
[ This, croaked out as he catches her as best as he can. It's an effort, but he lifts her up as he had tried to earlier, helps her to sit on top of the counter, putting her at roughly eye level with him. Both of his hands bracket her face. ]
What's wrong? What's happening?
[ (Kraglin's voice behind him, shouting something about a quarantine, something about the Nova Corps, something about shit that doesn't matter, because Gamora's skin is far too hot against his palms, her breathing far too strained.) ]
Gamora, c'mon. Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.
[ If she had the presence of mind, Gamora might have some complaints about Peter simply picking her up and putting her where he pleases, but as it stands— well, she isn't able to stand.
She can barely focus on Peter now. His hands against her face are almost cold, even with his own fever, but she doesn't turn away from him, trying to keep her eyes on his as he tells her to breathe.
Reaching up, her fingers curl loosely around one of his wrists, but there's no real grip to it, no pressure as she tries to draw a slower breath in, tries to keep her eyes open. ]
My— mods—
[ —should have taken care of this.
Should have burned whatever this is out.
But instead, that fever is raging out of control, and the self-regulation in her system can't keep up. ]
I can't—
[ Hoarse, as her eyes try to close, as she slumps just a bit more in his grip. ]
He casts around frantically, looking for something that might give him inspiration to solve this new fucking crisis, and the only thing his gaze lands on is a nearby bed. It's something, he thinks, and Gamora clearly isn't in a good enough state to keep sitting up on her own.
He focuses as much as he can, wraps one arm around her shoulders, maneuvers his other arm under her knees, and he lifts her. A dangerous proposition, considering the way his own head swims, the way the deck tries to buck him off, but he grits his teeth and carries her to the bed. ]
Just— hang on, okay?
[ And he stumbles his way over to the intercom, catching himself once or twice on nearby furniture to keep from eating shit on the deck. It feels like a goddamn accomplishment once he finally reaches it, finally slams his palm against the button to answer the repeated hails. ]
Where the hell were you? [ Kraglin again, voice shrill with fear. ] We got Nova Corpsmen on the line tellin' us some nonsense about some kinda biological hazard, that we need to go through quarantine and decontamination procedures, here, and I keep tellin' 'em we ain't got nothin' that serious. But they don't believe me, and you been—
[ Peter snarls out, ] Shut up.
[ And the alien tone is enough to startle Kraglin into silence. ]
It's Gamora. [ Peter's voice is sharp, anger turning to panic, turning to something ugly that writhes in his chest, but he loses that edge with each word that spills from his mouth ] She's— she has this fever. The warehouse— there was some stuff, I think. She touched it, and— and I thought it'd be fine. I thought— we thought—
But it's not. It's really fucking bad, and— We're in the infirmary but— she's— just— what the fuck do I do? I don't—
[ Fuck, his head throbs, and why is it so fucking hard to string together words? He presses his brow against the bulkhead again, and he thinks he hears multiple voices, now, arguing or bickering or just talking, but they might as well be speaking in another language for all Peter can understand them. ]
Quill. [ Rocket this time, and Kraglin's voice in the background, speaking to someone else, it seems. ] We're puttin' the infirmary on lockdown, alright? Then some giant assholes with med equipment and hazmat suits are gonna come filin' in. All you two losers gotta do is sit tight, okay? Sit tight, and don't die. In that order. You got it, Quill?
[ Peter nods in response, which is stupid, and Rocket makes that perfectly clear when he barks out, ] Quill. Answer me.
Yeah. Yes. Okay.
[ The line cuts, then, and Peter makes his way back to Gamora's side, slumps down in a chair. He reaches for her hand. ]
[ Concentration isn't coming to Gamora, even after Peter manages to lay her out on the small bunk provided in the infirmary. The room is spinning, swarmed by what looks like heat waves, though she knows it's simply the distortion in her own vision. She's trying to listen to Peter and the voices from the intercom, trying to focus on something more than how heavy her body is, how it feels like swimming through thick mud just to keep her eyes open.
She doesn't pick out much – "biological hazard," "med equipment and hazmat suits," "don't die."
Don't die.
A shuddery breath catches in her throat, but she manages to tilt her head up to look at Peter when he settles heavily into the chair beside her. She sees his hand, and she doesn't hesitate to reach for it in return, setting her fingers somewhat clumsily against his. ]
What's— going on?
[ Breathing. That much she can do.
(Whatever part of her that's coherent rages against how much of a struggle it is for her to so much as speak, and she's furious with herself, with her body's failure to push through this... sickness? Infection? This thing that's making her feel so damnably weak.
[ At that question, Peter sort of— blinks. Because he knows about as much as Gamora knows, honestly. Which is basically nothing. ]
Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.
[ With more conviction than he feels.
He should’ve asked for more details, but— that’s not important. Not really, anyway, in the face of everything else. His hand tightens around hers, wincing at that unnatural heat she’s giving off. He should— get another towel. Get her some water. Give her those disgusting fever reducers. Something, because that helplessness is clawing at his ribs again, climbing up his throat, and—
Is this happening again? Really? A million things left unsaid. Someone else slipping through his fingers while he can only watch—
No. No. Okay. He sucks in a breath, pushing himself to his feet. Towel. Then water. Then medicine. He should’ve done this earlier, should’ve done literally anything, but something had come over him, something had clouded his head, made him think with his dick before his brain.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He stumbles over to the sink, grabs a new towel and dampens it with cold water, fills a new glass with water. He digs through a nearby cabinet, retrieves the little tube with that shitty-tasting medicine, and brings it all back to Gamora. He brushes the towel across her face, wiping away sweat. ]
[ She hadn't... quite made out that part of the conversation, unfortunately.
The towel is so relieving, though, that cool brush against her face almost too much, but she doesn't want him to pull it away.
Her vision wavers again as she tries to keep her gaze focused on Peter, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut in an effort to steady herself.
Pull it together.
She forces herself to take a deeper breath, shifting and trying to get her elbow underneath her to sit up, but— she just shakes and slumps down against the bunk again. ]
The hospital. [ He thinks that’s what they’re waiting on, anyway. That’s where they were headed, after all, and it logically follows, with Rocket’s talk of med techs and junk. ] We’re almost there.
[ She struggles to sit up, and Peter makes a small, unhappy sound when she does – and he outright winces when she falls back to the bed. ]
Hey, just— just relax, alright?
[ And he reaches out, moving to help her sit up. ]
[ Another time, and Gamora would be shooing him away for hovering, for all of this worry, but she genuinely needs his help to navigate sitting up properly. She grabs onto his arm when the movement makes her head spin, but she breathes through it, hard as that currently is. ]
How— how close are we?
[ ... and maybe the fact that she's asking about the hospital and how soon they'll arrive is concerning enough, because it's acknowledgment that this is beyond simply waiting around for her mods to overcome whatever substance she's been exposed to. ]
[ And that makes worry spike in him again, that she’s not refusing his help, that she’s not bitching about not needing to go to a hospital. It’s a sign of how bad at is that she’s not denying anything, and that cold, writhing panic coils all the more tightly around his throat. ]
We’re close.
[ Probably. Close enough, anyway, that Kraglin would be in touch with hospital officials, close enough that discussing how anyone’s getting aboard the ship when they have a breakout of something going on was less theoretical and more concrete. Close enough that Peter can faintly feel the ship coming to a stop, and a voice overhead announces that everyone ought to be real nice to the med techs that’ll be climbing aboard pretty soon.
It should make him feel better, but Peter feels himself grimace, all the same, because hospitals make him nervous, make something visceral and desperate and helpless claw at the inside of his ribs. (The doctors didn’t help Mom, after all. They all just watched her waste away with grim expressions on their faces.)
He forces it down, tips the glass of water against Gamora’s lips. ]
She can do that, at least, and she parts her lips for the water, reaching up to steady the glass (as much as she actually can). The water is good, perfect for her suddenly-parched throat, though she eventually ends up nudging the glass away with a small wince before she forgets to breathe through drinking it. ]
Are you—
[ Her words catch on something hoarse, but she clears her throat, tries again. ]
You almost— are you—
[ She grimaces as she tries to speak, but it's getting harder the more uneven she feels, the more her head spins and how difficult it's become for her to keep her eyes open. She reaches out, curling fingers at his shoulder lightly for something— grounding. Something outside of this burning, all-consuming heat. ]
[ She should drink more, he thinks, but the way her breath rattles makes him wince, and he pulls the glass away, easing her back onto the bed. And when she struggles to speak, he swallows thickly around the fear lancing through him, choking him.
(And that voice in the back of his head, reminding him, This is your fault. Why weren’t you faster?) ]
Relax. Take it easy.
[ Soft, as soothing as he can manage – though even then there’s a tremor to his voice, and he grips her hand tightly. He moves the towel across her face again, brushes it across her forehead, her cheeks, her neck.
(Flashes in his mind of doing the same for Mom, when she was still at home. Sitting on the edge of her bed as he dipped a towel into a bowl of water, wringing it out carefully before she took it from him.
“My darlin’ little boy,” she’d say with a faint smile, pressing the towel to her forehead. “So thoughtful and kind. So much like your daddy.”) ]
[ She shakes her head, trying to be insistent, but he keeps running that soothing towel over her face, and every part of her just feels heavy, and she wants so badly to let herself rest. ]
Don't want—
[ She doesn't want to let it overtake her, doesn't want to give into whatever is swarming through her body – but she doesn't know if she has a choice now.
A slow, shaky exhale, and Gamora's fingers start to slide away from his skin, her eyes beginning to droop closed. ]
I...
[ Somewhere across the Quadrant, the low sound of a docking ship thrums through everything as the loading bay opens and closes again. If she could think straight, she would realize that the med techs would be swarming the little infirmary soon, to take them both away for whatever will fix— this.
But she's hardly aware of it as the remainder of the stamina keeping her conscious starts to slip through her fingers, and with what's left of her coherence, she manages, ]
[ Punched out of him as she starts to fade away, and he’s distantly aware of the noise of activity down the corridors, of voices coming closer. But who the shit cares, because Gamora is fading on him fast, and he knows she’s just— falling asleep. Just— losing consciousness.
But it feels too familiar, lands too close to home—
(alarms wailing and family and friends bursting into sobs around him—
ice crystallizing over blue skin and red eyes as the life in them fades away— screaming and screaming and screaming at the top of his lungs. no, please, god. no—)
—and he grips her hand, the other curling against her cheek. ]
Gamora, no. C’mon. Gamora, don’t— don’t do this to me—
[ The doors open, and people in red suits that cover them from head to toe file into the infirmary. Someone calls his name but he doesn’t notice them with the way his head swims, with the way his vision dims at the edges, with the way heat floods his nerves, burning him from the inside out. Someone’s shouting, and they should really stop, they should really be quiet, because Gamora is asleep, but—
It’s him. It’s him. Telling Gamora to wake up, please, wake up, and his breathing goes ragged, each inhale harder earned than the last, and someone’s pulling him away and why would they do that? Why would they— he needs to be here, with Gamora, because she’s going to wake up any second now, any fucking second, and—
He swipes at someone. He doesn’t realize he does it, but someone’s hand wraps around his bicep and he lashes out, red rage flooding his vision, and there are alarmed shouts and commands and suddenly there are strong grips around his wrists, keeping him pinned, and he struggles and snarls and then the tiniest pinprick in the side of his neck and—
The world grows hazy after that. Someone speaking quiet reassurances in his ear, someone telling him it’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, just sleep, just rest, they’ll fix this—
[ Unfortunately, so much falls on deaf ears once Gamora succumbs to the fever. Some distant part of her thinks she can hear— something, that tug at her senses that tries to rouse her, to push her past the heat and overwhelming intensity of what's flying through her nerves. Her modifications are still trying to scramble for damage control, repairing cells that have been burnt to a crisp thanks to the toxin in her system. It quickly becomes clear to the techs that bioaugmentations done to her body are responsible for keeping her together as long as she'd held out, but given the viciously aggressive nature of the toxin itself, it had only been a matter of time before the fever started to override her healing factor; Thanos hadn't made her invulnerable, after all.
Various safeguards are put in place to avoid contaminating anyone else as they transport Peter and Gamora off of the Quadrant. The medical technicians associated with Nova take the time to explain to the other Guardians what's happened – that Peter and Gamora have come in contact with a powerful (and dangerous) weaponized biological agent. There had been suspicions that Cryon was dealing in more than just Dust, but given the unconfirmed nature of the intel, they hadn't seen fit to warn the Guardians about something so potentially sensitive.
Just the Guardians' luck that Gamora had fallen right into what Cryon had stashed away.
The Quadrant would have to undergo a thorough decontamination process, along with all of the others, even if they hadn't yet displayed any symptoms of the volatile toxin.
"The hell does this shit even do?" Rocket demanded, his eyes narrowed and his tail twitching with agitation. He isn't the only one put off by the lack of warning from the Nova Corps before taking this job, and the others all stand around with varying degrees of concern and anger on their faces.
One of the technicians takes the time to delicately explain the agent to them. Apparently, the toxin was built to overload a subject's nervous system, to cause an organic body to continuously overheat while flooding them with a form of norepinephrine to cause arousal in said nervous system. How a victim responded was nearly idiosyncratic in its own right, determined purely by the individual and their surroundings – though it purposefully manifested in a way to motivate anyone infected with the intense desire for physical contact (in order to spread the affliction), whether through violence or other means.
The more the infection of sorts is described, the more distressed the Guardians look.
"But... they will recover?" Mantis asks in a timid voice.
Fortunately, they'd returned quickly enough that the prognosis is far more positive than it might have been given any longer stretch of time.
Relief sweeps through the Guardians, but they have nearly no opportunity to savor it as they're all swept off to be decontaminated and given a precautionary dose of antibiotics to avoid any potential symptoms.
Peter and Gamora are both brought to a medical facility for a more serious round of treatments.
Gamora wakes partway through when her fever starts to subside, and her automatic reaction is to fight against the hands on her body, against the pain still running through her. Thanks to her disorientation and remaining weakness from the toxin, it's— easier than it might have been otherwise to restrain and sedate her again. Unfortunately, the bulk of the treatment will require time and rest, and once she and Peter have been seen to and properly dosed with antibodies, they're put in a joint room with beds side-by-side.
All that's left for them to do is sleep.
Gamora finally starts to wake days later when her body stirs, the sedatives slowly filtering out of her system. She feels wrung out, groggy and slow, and coming around takes more time than she would normally like. When she opens her eyes, she's staring at a blank ceiling and dim lights, and—
—she bolts straight up in bed, nearly yanking the IV right out of her arm.
She hisses out a curse, pressing a hand over the crook of her elbow and looking blearily around the hospital room. It's late, dark outside the tiny window, and the room is empty except—
Peter. In the bed across from her.
Oh.
Her eyes go wide as she tries to steady her breathing, staring at the heart monitor and its constant, steady beeping. ]
[ Luckily for both of them, Peter’s own path to consciousness is far less explosive than Gamora’s.
He doesn’t wake immediately, of course, drifting in some state between sleeping and waking. He’s not entirely sure if he’s willing to commit to either and for a long while, he floats there. Or he does until he stirs slightly with the flurry of movement nearby. A familiar voice carried on a hiss.
Someone calling his name.
And that pulls him out of it, drags him out slowly, like he’s stuck in tar. He comes back to himself by degrees – hearing first. A familiar, constant beep. The creaking of metal. The whisper of sheets. Feeling comes next – his head throbs. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. His body feels like it’s been filled with lead. Then sight, as he blinks his eyes open to the pristine ceiling, though his vision is blurred, like staring out of a fogged-up window.
The fever had wreaked havoc on his system with far more speed and ease than it had Gamora’s, and later, Peter will feel a pang of envy for the way her mods will help her recover in a blink compared to Peter’s slow crawl. For now, though, he just knows he aches, feels heavy, and he’s almost certain his head will actually burst apart. ]
Shit. [ Wheezed out. He screws his eyes shut against the dim light of the room. ] Ow.
[ He reaches up, sluggishly scrubbing at his face to clear his vision, before his head lolls to one side. A familiar smear of green across the way, and Peter feels something in him relax. ]
[ There's a long moment where Gamora holds her breath and waits... but then Peter finally starts to stir, and the concern about seeing him in a hospital bed starts to wane (it doesn't go far, because she isn't entirely certain what's happening, but consciousness makes it somehow less pressing).
She eases slightly, rubbing at her eyes and pushing her hair away from her face. ]
I'm here.
[ Here and far more coherent than she's been since that moon.
Whenever that was.
It feels like she hasn't moved in days, and she doesn't know what to make of it. ]
[ He brings up both hands this time, covering his face to block out the light – it makes it easier to concentrate, at least a little, without the light lancing through to his brain. He thinks back on why the hell they’re here, what led up to it all, but a lot of it is— blurred. Indistinct. He remembers panic and fear and helplessness and brief, brilliant bursts of want and desperation and anger—
And fever. Gamora, burning up beneath his touch—
He drops his hands, frowning over at her again. He doesn’t quite sit up, but he lifts his head to better examine her. ]
[ Gamora's lips press in a thin line, nodding slowly because she remembers that. ]
Nothing has affected me like that in a long time.
[ She pinches the bridge of her nose, frowning as she thinks back on the hours that she does remember. There had been so much heat – the fever and... something else. It had made it difficult to focus, to think about more than just the way it had all burned in her body, and emotions had come with the same bright, fierce intensity that she hadn't been able to quell.
Keeping herself in check shouldn't be such a struggle, but whatever it was in her system had overridden that. Restraint had practically evaporated, and—
Oh.
Oh.
She's definitely starting to remember the infirmary.
She swallows, looking back over at Peter, but her voice is steady when she speaks. ]
[ Well, at least one of them should remember Peter’s stellar performance back there, even if it’s not Peter, himself. As it is, a lot of it is still a blur, but he remembers well enough the moments after the mission. Going back to his room, Gamora getting changed. Taking her to the infirmary as worry and concern gnawed at his guts.
That he remembers with crystal-clear clarity.
At her question, he lies back again, peering down at himself. Hospital gown. Electrodes taped to his chest, a needle in the crook of his elbow, leading to a tube and a plastic bag, hanging from a rack. ]
Guess so?
[ Croaked out, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose, wincing against his headache. ]
[ She imagines that bouncing back won't prove to be quite so easy for Peter as it is for her, and she feels moderately guilty for that. ]
I didn't think it was something that could be passed on.
[ Or, rather, she didn't think it was anything at all.
She draws her knees up, resting her elbow on one and pushing her fingers into her hair as she continues to watch Peter. ]
... Did I hurt you?
[ Because she remembers grabbing him far too roughly, and she remembers—
—nails dragging down his shoulders as he moans against her skin, his teeth at her throat, his tongue, and his hands—
—certain things. At this point, she also isn't sure how rough she'd been with him, how she'd grabbed him or how many bruises she might have accidentally left behind in her eagerness to touch everything she could reach, to mark and claim—
[ He huffs out a self-deprecating sort of laugh, letting his arm fall across his middle. ]
Yeah, well, if it helps, neither did I.
[ He makes a concerted effort to push himself up to a sit, though it’s a little slow going with the way he aches – the familiar, leftover pains of a fever, he knows. At her question, he looks himself over – or more specifically, he glances at his arm, where he remembers her latching on and gripping. Sure enough, a bruise mars his skin, and he rubs at it. ]
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no subject
And when she says his name like that, rough and filled with desire, he lets out another moan.
He wants— needs— wants— needs— more. It shrieks through every nerve, every fiber of his being demanding contact, like he needs to be touched, that he needs to touch, and he can hardly help the way his hands explore her skin, like they move of their own accord.
He pulls himself away, readying himself to lift Gamora onto the counter, but when he pulls back, his head swims, the room sways, and grunts out a startled sound, his hands leaving Gamora to catch himself on the edge of the counter, to press against his brow. He screws his eyes shut against the spinning of the room, and once everything settles, he goes right back to kissing Gamora.
Apparently this need has burned that sense of self-preservation right out of him. ]
no subject
God, if her heart wasn't already about to pound right out of her chest, it just might now.
A growl of protest catches behind her teeth when he pulls away, even though she realizes what he's about to do, but— he nearly falls against her, and really, if she was more coherent, she'd have immediately brought this to a complete halt to check on him. Unfortunately, she's easily distracted by his lips pressing to hers, by the reinitiation of heat and contact. ]
Need— you, Peter—
[ His name again, words spilling against his lips in a husky, low tone, breaking on another moan as she grabs at every part of him she can reach.
It's too hot, too much, and she feels like she's going to melt right out of her skin, but she can't— stop. Whatever this is, whatever fuels it, makes it impossible to sort through the fever to rationality, and all she knows is that as long as Peter keeps touching her, she can deal with it (that she doesn't want it to end).
But as fixated as she is, she's shaking, fingers unsteady and uncoordinated as they slide down his sides, around his stomach to reach for his pants. It's easy to pass it off as that overeagerness, that desperation to get closer, to get more (while almost completely forgetting to abandon her own clothes yet), because the slip of her usually-dextrous fingers doesn't faze her in the slightest. ]
no subject
For now, he lets out another low noise, almost a growl, as she pulls him in closer, as her hands rove over his body. And he does the same for her, the material of her (his) shirt loose enough on her lithe frame that he can move it aside without a fuss as he explores her skin. (she's burning up, a distant, almost buried voice reminds him. this is a problem.) Her fingers slide across his overheated skin, leave trails like fire, and when she fumbles at his belt, he groans against her lips. He can't help the way he moves against her, hips shifting as need buzzes through him—
Or— or maybe that's an actual buzzer. A shrill noise from the intercom sounding over and over, trying to get their attention, interspersed with a gruff voice shouting Peter's name with growing impatience. Peter pulls away for a second, startled by the noise, stunned and dazed and split on what to do. ]
no subject
Except—
She can't find purchase with his belt. She can't make her fingers work enough to figure out the catch, and that shaking has spread deeper into her bones, her muscles finally starting to wane in protest. Her knees buckle as bright spots fill her vision, and the heat, the heat— ]
Peter—?
[ But this time, his name comes on confusion, distress, her throat too tight as her next breath takes even more effort.
... Staying upright is about to become very difficult. ]
no subject
That voice from the intercom – Kraglin's voice, Peter thinks, but does it matter? – practically shouting, now, worry and irritation edging into his voice.
"Pete, I swear to god, if you don't answer me right the hell now—"
Peter makes an irritated sound of his own, turning back toward Gamora to pick up where they left off, except— except her hands are slipping away, except she's swaying dangerously, except—
The way she says his name this time cuts straight through the fog, and that worry (that fear) from earlier makes him suck in a sharp breath. ]
Oh, shit—
[ This, croaked out as he catches her as best as he can. It's an effort, but he lifts her up as he had tried to earlier, helps her to sit on top of the counter, putting her at roughly eye level with him. Both of his hands bracket her face. ]
What's wrong? What's happening?
[ (Kraglin's voice behind him, shouting something about a quarantine, something about the Nova Corps, something about shit that doesn't matter, because Gamora's skin is far too hot against his palms, her breathing far too strained.) ]
Gamora, c'mon. Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe.
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She can barely focus on Peter now. His hands against her face are almost cold, even with his own fever, but she doesn't turn away from him, trying to keep her eyes on his as he tells her to breathe.
Reaching up, her fingers curl loosely around one of his wrists, but there's no real grip to it, no pressure as she tries to draw a slower breath in, tries to keep her eyes open. ]
My— mods—
[ —should have taken care of this.
Should have burned whatever this is out.
But instead, that fever is raging out of control, and the self-regulation in her system can't keep up. ]
I can't—
[ Hoarse, as her eyes try to close, as she slumps just a bit more in his grip. ]
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He casts around frantically, looking for something that might give him inspiration to solve this new fucking crisis, and the only thing his gaze lands on is a nearby bed. It's something, he thinks, and Gamora clearly isn't in a good enough state to keep sitting up on her own.
He focuses as much as he can, wraps one arm around her shoulders, maneuvers his other arm under her knees, and he lifts her. A dangerous proposition, considering the way his own head swims, the way the deck tries to buck him off, but he grits his teeth and carries her to the bed. ]
Just— hang on, okay?
[ And he stumbles his way over to the intercom, catching himself once or twice on nearby furniture to keep from eating shit on the deck. It feels like a goddamn accomplishment once he finally reaches it, finally slams his palm against the button to answer the repeated hails. ]
Where the hell were you? [ Kraglin again, voice shrill with fear. ] We got Nova Corpsmen on the line tellin' us some nonsense about some kinda biological hazard, that we need to go through quarantine and decontamination procedures, here, and I keep tellin' 'em we ain't got nothin' that serious. But they don't believe me, and you been—
[ Peter snarls out, ] Shut up.
[ And the alien tone is enough to startle Kraglin into silence. ]
It's Gamora. [ Peter's voice is sharp, anger turning to panic, turning to something ugly that writhes in his chest, but he loses that edge with each word that spills from his mouth ] She's— she has this fever. The warehouse— there was some stuff, I think. She touched it, and— and I thought it'd be fine. I thought— we thought—
But it's not. It's really fucking bad, and— We're in the infirmary but— she's— just— what the fuck do I do? I don't—
[ Fuck, his head throbs, and why is it so fucking hard to string together words? He presses his brow against the bulkhead again, and he thinks he hears multiple voices, now, arguing or bickering or just talking, but they might as well be speaking in another language for all Peter can understand them. ]
Quill. [ Rocket this time, and Kraglin's voice in the background, speaking to someone else, it seems. ] We're puttin' the infirmary on lockdown, alright? Then some giant assholes with med equipment and hazmat suits are gonna come filin' in. All you two losers gotta do is sit tight, okay? Sit tight, and don't die. In that order. You got it, Quill?
[ Peter nods in response, which is stupid, and Rocket makes that perfectly clear when he barks out, ] Quill. Answer me.
Yeah. Yes. Okay.
[ The line cuts, then, and Peter makes his way back to Gamora's side, slumps down in a chair. He reaches for her hand. ]
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She doesn't pick out much – "biological hazard," "med equipment and hazmat suits," "don't die."
Don't die.
A shuddery breath catches in her throat, but she manages to tilt her head up to look at Peter when he settles heavily into the chair beside her. She sees his hand, and she doesn't hesitate to reach for it in return, setting her fingers somewhat clumsily against his. ]
What's— going on?
[ Breathing. That much she can do.
(Whatever part of her that's coherent rages against how much of a struggle it is for her to so much as speak, and she's furious with herself, with her body's failure to push through this... sickness? Infection? This thing that's making her feel so damnably weak.
She's better than this.) ]
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Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.
[ With more conviction than he feels.
He should’ve asked for more details, but— that’s not important. Not really, anyway, in the face of everything else. His hand tightens around hers, wincing at that unnatural heat she’s giving off. He should— get another towel. Get her some water. Give her those disgusting fever reducers. Something, because that helplessness is clawing at his ribs again, climbing up his throat, and—
Is this happening again? Really? A million things left unsaid. Someone else slipping through his fingers while he can only watch—
No. No. Okay. He sucks in a breath, pushing himself to his feet. Towel. Then water. Then medicine. He should’ve done this earlier, should’ve done literally anything, but something had come over him, something had clouded his head, made him think with his dick before his brain.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He stumbles over to the sink, grabs a new towel and dampens it with cold water, fills a new glass with water. He digs through a nearby cabinet, retrieves the little tube with that shitty-tasting medicine, and brings it all back to Gamora. He brushes the towel across her face, wiping away sweat. ]
Just— gotta wait, alright?
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[ She hadn't... quite made out that part of the conversation, unfortunately.
The towel is so relieving, though, that cool brush against her face almost too much, but she doesn't want him to pull it away.
Her vision wavers again as she tries to keep her gaze focused on Peter, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut in an effort to steady herself.
Pull it together.
She forces herself to take a deeper breath, shifting and trying to get her elbow underneath her to sit up, but— she just shakes and slumps down against the bunk again. ]
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[ She struggles to sit up, and Peter makes a small, unhappy sound when she does – and he outright winces when she falls back to the bed. ]
Hey, just— just relax, alright?
[ And he reaches out, moving to help her sit up. ]
Let’s get some water in you, huh?
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How— how close are we?
[ ... and maybe the fact that she's asking about the hospital and how soon they'll arrive is concerning enough, because it's acknowledgment that this is beyond simply waiting around for her mods to overcome whatever substance she's been exposed to. ]
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We’re close.
[ Probably. Close enough, anyway, that Kraglin would be in touch with hospital officials, close enough that discussing how anyone’s getting aboard the ship when they have a breakout of something going on was less theoretical and more concrete. Close enough that Peter can faintly feel the ship coming to a stop, and a voice overhead announces that everyone ought to be real nice to the med techs that’ll be climbing aboard pretty soon.
It should make him feel better, but Peter feels himself grimace, all the same, because hospitals make him nervous, make something visceral and desperate and helpless claw at the inside of his ribs. (The doctors didn’t help Mom, after all. They all just watched her waste away with grim expressions on their faces.)
He forces it down, tips the glass of water against Gamora’s lips. ]
C’mon. Drink this.
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She can do that, at least, and she parts her lips for the water, reaching up to steady the glass (as much as she actually can). The water is good, perfect for her suddenly-parched throat, though she eventually ends up nudging the glass away with a small wince before she forgets to breathe through drinking it. ]
Are you—
[ Her words catch on something hoarse, but she clears her throat, tries again. ]
You almost— are you—
[ She grimaces as she tries to speak, but it's getting harder the more uneven she feels, the more her head spins and how difficult it's become for her to keep her eyes open. She reaches out, curling fingers at his shoulder lightly for something— grounding. Something outside of this burning, all-consuming heat. ]
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(And that voice in the back of his head, reminding him, This is your fault. Why weren’t you faster?) ]
Relax. Take it easy.
[ Soft, as soothing as he can manage – though even then there’s a tremor to his voice, and he grips her hand tightly. He moves the towel across her face again, brushes it across her forehead, her cheeks, her neck.
(Flashes in his mind of doing the same for Mom, when she was still at home. Sitting on the edge of her bed as he dipped a towel into a bowl of water, wringing it out carefully before she took it from him.
“My darlin’ little boy,” she’d say with a faint smile, pressing the towel to her forehead. “So thoughtful and kind. So much like your daddy.”) ]
Just rest.
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Don't want—
[ She doesn't want to let it overtake her, doesn't want to give into whatever is swarming through her body – but she doesn't know if she has a choice now.
A slow, shaky exhale, and Gamora's fingers start to slide away from his skin, her eyes beginning to droop closed. ]
I...
[ Somewhere across the Quadrant, the low sound of a docking ship thrums through everything as the loading bay opens and closes again. If she could think straight, she would realize that the med techs would be swarming the little infirmary soon, to take them both away for whatever will fix— this.
But she's hardly aware of it as the remainder of the stamina keeping her conscious starts to slip through her fingers, and with what's left of her coherence, she manages, ]
Peter...
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Gamora—
[ Punched out of him as she starts to fade away, and he’s distantly aware of the noise of activity down the corridors, of voices coming closer. But who the shit cares, because Gamora is fading on him fast, and he knows she’s just— falling asleep. Just— losing consciousness.
But it feels too familiar, lands too close to home—
(alarms wailing and family and friends bursting into sobs around him—
ice crystallizing over blue skin and red eyes as the life in them fades away—
screaming and screaming and screaming at the top of his lungs. no, please, god. no—)
—and he grips her hand, the other curling against her cheek. ]
Gamora, no. C’mon. Gamora, don’t— don’t do this to me—
[ The doors open, and people in red suits that cover them from head to toe file into the infirmary. Someone calls his name but he doesn’t notice them with the way his head swims, with the way his vision dims at the edges, with the way heat floods his nerves, burning him from the inside out. Someone’s shouting, and they should really stop, they should really be quiet, because Gamora is asleep, but—
It’s him. It’s him. Telling Gamora to wake up, please, wake up, and his breathing goes ragged, each inhale harder earned than the last, and someone’s pulling him away and why would they do that? Why would they— he needs to be here, with Gamora, because she’s going to wake up any second now, any fucking second, and—
He swipes at someone. He doesn’t realize he does it, but someone’s hand wraps around his bicep and he lashes out, red rage flooding his vision, and there are alarmed shouts and commands and suddenly there are strong grips around his wrists, keeping him pinned, and he struggles and snarls and then the tiniest pinprick in the side of his neck and—
The world grows hazy after that. Someone speaking quiet reassurances in his ear, someone telling him it’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, just sleep, just rest, they’ll fix this—
And then he’s out. ]
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Various safeguards are put in place to avoid contaminating anyone else as they transport Peter and Gamora off of the Quadrant. The medical technicians associated with Nova take the time to explain to the other Guardians what's happened – that Peter and Gamora have come in contact with a powerful (and dangerous) weaponized biological agent. There had been suspicions that Cryon was dealing in more than just Dust, but given the unconfirmed nature of the intel, they hadn't seen fit to warn the Guardians about something so potentially sensitive.
Just the Guardians' luck that Gamora had fallen right into what Cryon had stashed away.
The Quadrant would have to undergo a thorough decontamination process, along with all of the others, even if they hadn't yet displayed any symptoms of the volatile toxin.
"The hell does this shit even do?" Rocket demanded, his eyes narrowed and his tail twitching with agitation. He isn't the only one put off by the lack of warning from the Nova Corps before taking this job, and the others all stand around with varying degrees of concern and anger on their faces.
One of the technicians takes the time to delicately explain the agent to them. Apparently, the toxin was built to overload a subject's nervous system, to cause an organic body to continuously overheat while flooding them with a form of norepinephrine to cause arousal in said nervous system. How a victim responded was nearly idiosyncratic in its own right, determined purely by the individual and their surroundings – though it purposefully manifested in a way to motivate anyone infected with the intense desire for physical contact (in order to spread the affliction), whether through violence or other means.
The more the infection of sorts is described, the more distressed the Guardians look.
"But... they will recover?" Mantis asks in a timid voice.
Fortunately, they'd returned quickly enough that the prognosis is far more positive than it might have been given any longer stretch of time.
Relief sweeps through the Guardians, but they have nearly no opportunity to savor it as they're all swept off to be decontaminated and given a precautionary dose of antibiotics to avoid any potential symptoms.
Peter and Gamora are both brought to a medical facility for a more serious round of treatments.
Gamora wakes partway through when her fever starts to subside, and her automatic reaction is to fight against the hands on her body, against the pain still running through her. Thanks to her disorientation and remaining weakness from the toxin, it's— easier than it might have been otherwise to restrain and sedate her again. Unfortunately, the bulk of the treatment will require time and rest, and once she and Peter have been seen to and properly dosed with antibodies, they're put in a joint room with beds side-by-side.
All that's left for them to do is sleep.
Gamora finally starts to wake days later when her body stirs, the sedatives slowly filtering out of her system. She feels wrung out, groggy and slow, and coming around takes more time than she would normally like. When she opens her eyes, she's staring at a blank ceiling and dim lights, and—
—she bolts straight up in bed, nearly yanking the IV right out of her arm.
She hisses out a curse, pressing a hand over the crook of her elbow and looking blearily around the hospital room. It's late, dark outside the tiny window, and the room is empty except—
Peter. In the bed across from her.
Oh.
Her eyes go wide as she tries to steady her breathing, staring at the heart monitor and its constant, steady beeping. ]
Peter...?
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He doesn’t wake immediately, of course, drifting in some state between sleeping and waking. He’s not entirely sure if he’s willing to commit to either and for a long while, he floats there. Or he does until he stirs slightly with the flurry of movement nearby. A familiar voice carried on a hiss.
Someone calling his name.
And that pulls him out of it, drags him out slowly, like he’s stuck in tar. He comes back to himself by degrees – hearing first. A familiar, constant beep. The creaking of metal. The whisper of sheets. Feeling comes next – his head throbs. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. His body feels like it’s been filled with lead. Then sight, as he blinks his eyes open to the pristine ceiling, though his vision is blurred, like staring out of a fogged-up window.
The fever had wreaked havoc on his system with far more speed and ease than it had Gamora’s, and later, Peter will feel a pang of envy for the way her mods will help her recover in a blink compared to Peter’s slow crawl. For now, though, he just knows he aches, feels heavy, and he’s almost certain his head will actually burst apart. ]
Shit. [ Wheezed out. He screws his eyes shut against the dim light of the room. ] Ow.
[ He reaches up, sluggishly scrubbing at his face to clear his vision, before his head lolls to one side. A familiar smear of green across the way, and Peter feels something in him relax. ]
‘Mora?
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She eases slightly, rubbing at her eyes and pushing her hair away from her face. ]
I'm here.
[ Here and far more coherent than she's been since that moon.
Whenever that was.
It feels like she hasn't moved in days, and she doesn't know what to make of it. ]
What happened?
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[ He brings up both hands this time, covering his face to block out the light – it makes it easier to concentrate, at least a little, without the light lancing through to his brain. He thinks back on why the hell they’re here, what led up to it all, but a lot of it is— blurred. Indistinct. He remembers panic and fear and helplessness and brief, brilliant bursts of want and desperation and anger—
And fever. Gamora, burning up beneath his touch—
He drops his hands, frowning over at her again. He doesn’t quite sit up, but he lifts his head to better examine her. ]
You were sick. Like, really sick.
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Nothing has affected me like that in a long time.
[ She pinches the bridge of her nose, frowning as she thinks back on the hours that she does remember. There had been so much heat – the fever and... something else. It had made it difficult to focus, to think about more than just the way it had all burned in her body, and emotions had come with the same bright, fierce intensity that she hadn't been able to quell.
Keeping herself in check shouldn't be such a struggle, but whatever it was in her system had overridden that. Restraint had practically evaporated, and—
Oh.
Oh.
She's definitely starting to remember the infirmary.
She swallows, looking back over at Peter, but her voice is steady when she speaks. ]
Did I give it to you?
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That he remembers with crystal-clear clarity.
At her question, he lies back again, peering down at himself. Hospital gown. Electrodes taped to his chest, a needle in the crook of his elbow, leading to a tube and a plastic bag, hanging from a rack. ]
Guess so?
[ Croaked out, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose, wincing against his headache. ]
Or else I’m having one hell of a hangover.
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I didn't think it was something that could be passed on.
[ Or, rather, she didn't think it was anything at all.
She draws her knees up, resting her elbow on one and pushing her fingers into her hair as she continues to watch Peter. ]
... Did I hurt you?
[ Because she remembers grabbing him far too roughly, and she remembers—
—nails dragging down his shoulders as he moans against her skin, his teeth at her throat, his tongue, and his hands—
—certain things. At this point, she also isn't sure how rough she'd been with him, how she'd grabbed him or how many bruises she might have accidentally left behind in her eagerness to touch everything she could reach, to mark and claim—
Damn it. ]
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Yeah, well, if it helps, neither did I.
[ He makes a concerted effort to push himself up to a sit, though it’s a little slow going with the way he aches – the familiar, leftover pains of a fever, he knows. At her question, he looks himself over – or more specifically, he glances at his arm, where he remembers her latching on and gripping. Sure enough, a bruise mars his skin, and he rubs at it. ]
I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.
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what the fuck i never got this notif....
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