[ 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. ]
[ Even in the dim lighting, she can see the vaguest darkening of his skin, and her expressions twists slightly with disapproval. She hates feeling out of control, and she should have been able to keep from hurting him like that – or at all. ]
Does your back?
[ Because she has no way of knowing how roughly she might have treated him. ]
[ He trails off, wondering if he wants to know the answer, before he huffs out a breath. He rolls his shoulders, shifting a little – because he assumes she means, like, muscle pain? Maybe she's remember she punched him or something? – and when he does everything without much difficulty, he gives another shake of his head.]
Nothing's wrong. I'm fine.
[ A pause, then he adds on with a wince, rubbing at his temple. ]
[ That much is at least a relief, though Gamora looks almost confused by Peter's confusion.
Does he... not remember?
She isn't sure if that's gratifying or frustrating, and she just frowns at him for a moment, considering. Maybe it's for the best if he can't remember how ardently that trip to the infirmary had gone. She's— almost embarrassed by how she'd acted, because as much as she'd wanted (wants) him, she'd wanted that conversation to happen.
When they had time.
Though she realizes she did tell him what she wants (all of him, to be precise, not just whatever physical thing they'd been driven to), but—
Maybe that will have to wait for another time. She's not certain how appealing she finds it to remind him again of something happening between them that he can't recall. ]
Should we call for the nurse?
[ Pain medication might not be a poor choice now.
... She, however, is already reaching for the IV in her arm to properly pull it out; she'd partially dislodged the tube when she'd woken, after all, and she highly doubts she still needs it. ]
[ He takes a deep breath, letting it out between his lips. He'll live, he knows, but fevers are the worst, and he's still kind of reeling over what brought them from point A to point B. The infirmary is kind of a blur, after a point. He remembers taking her there, remembers doing the scans, remembers her squeezing the hell out of his arm. And then—
He remembers the way Gamora's skin blazed under his fingertips, and he remembers being worried and frightened by it. And he remembers— dark eyes staring at him, and—
Peter glances over, sees the way she's reaching for the tube in her arm, and his thoughts scatter away. He clicks his tongue in disapproval. ]
[ Gamora looks up from where she's fiddling with the cannula in her arm. ]
I've already almost entirely dislodged it. I might as well take it out.
[ And it's annoying. ]
If they still think I need it, for some reason, they would have to insert another one anyway.
[ It's such an incredibly minor wound that her body is already trying to heal around where she's displaced it, so she'd need a different one to make sure it's effective.
But, at this point, she's not convinced she requires it – or further medical attention, for that matter. ]
[ he huffs out a breath through his teeth, that disapproving look still on his face. He admits she probably has a point, though from here he can’t quite see the state of the cannula; if she says she dislodged it, then she dislodged it. ]
Just— be careful about it, huh? Don’t yank it out like it’s a sword in a stone.
[ She says it blandly, clearly missing his reference – but that goes for most Terran analogies – as she starts to work the IV properly out. She hisses with slight discomfort when she pulls it free, and carelessly allows the tube to fall from the side of her bed as she rubs her hand along her arm.
She watches him steadily from her own bed, and then: ]
You look like hell.
[ ... Oh. Charming.
Though there's something in her tone that isn't necessarily a criticism; it's almost apologetic, because she can't help but assume that whatever she had, she'd gone and given it to Peter. She recalls that none of the others were displaying symptoms, and Peter couldn't have come into contact with that residue (if that truly was the culprit), so... logically, it could only have come from her.
[ He doesn’t watch as she works the cannula out of her arm – because ugh, gross – but he winces when he hears the sounds of discomfort coming from her way. He glances over when he hears the quiet click of the tube falling away, knocking against the frame of her bed, which means he sees the way she studies him.
He hears the words first before he recognizes the tone. In response to the words, Peter snorts out a laugh, scrubbing at his face, and with a healthy dose of sarcasm, ]
Aww, Gamora. That’s sweet of you to say.
[ And a half-second later, the way she’s looking at him, the way she sounded finally clicks, and he frowns a little. ]
I’m fine, though. [ Because it bears repeating. He looks like hell, feels like hell, but a part of him recognizes that he’s coming out of something, not falling into it. He’s better, though he doesn’t remember being worse, and it seems Gamora needs the reminder. ]
Whatever happened, you know it’s not your fault, right?
[ She purses her lips, that displeasure not quite leaving her expression. ]
I clearly gave this to you, however it is transmitted.
[ She'd been in close quarters with the others and they hadn't gotten it, so... ]
I have no idea if it was contact or saliva or... what else it could be.
[ —but had he already been displaying symptoms before she kissed him? The finer details are fuzzy, the timeline mildly skewed, and she can't place all the events in the right order.
She remembers the kissing quite vividly, though. ]
Or I breathed something in. Or I touched something. We both could’ve been contaminated – maybe you got a bigger dose of the stuff, and I just have a weaker immune system.
[ Considering he’s mostly Terran, now. Without the Light feeding into him – however that worked – Peter’s pretty sure the death of his father puts him at a much higher risk than he had been before he knew anything about his heritage. Not that he mentions it much to the others. ]
You and I went through certain parts of the warehouse that the other guys di— wait, what? Saliva? What?
[ Gamora looks skeptical as she lets him offer up other explanations (because she doesn't like thinking that she might have been the source, but limited evidence doesn't bode well), but she pauses when his brain seems to finally catch up with everything she'd said, and—
Oh. ]
Yes. Saliva.
[ And now she looks... unimpressed. ]
Do you not remember any of that?
[ Though this is more a question of her own lucidity at the time than anything else. ]
[ He brings a hand up to his brow again, apparently too flustered to think straight. He was on the verge of something, just a few seconds ago, but he'd been distracted. He just needs to get on that train of thought again, but he's still busy thinking, what the hell to find it properly. ]
Okay. He's pulling both hands down his face, now racking his brain. Too-hot skin beneath his hands, that unruly spike of fear, of deja vu. Dark, blazing eyes pinning him in place—
I want you.
Don't you dare stop touching me.
Sharp lines of pain down his back. The taste of salt. The heat of soft lips—
Holy fuck.
Peter feels his face heat – embarrassment, of course. (Not because as the memories flood back, he realizes how fucking hot and heavy that had nearly gotten.) With his hands over his mouth, he echoes faintly, ]
[ There's a long moment where Gamora just watches him intently, waiting for her words to sink in. At first, she isn't certain he'll remember, despite the reminder (as he hadn't back on Kreilon-Beta, when she'd told him about their misadventures in the bar), but— soon enough, there's that dawning realization. She sees it when it hits him, too, and she's willing to wait it out, let him realize the scope of what they'd done.
(Because it was a lot. There hadn't been any actual sex, but... she's almost entirely certain they would have gone through with it if the fever hadn't been driving their bodies to the point of exhaustion.)
But he also looks thoroughly gobsmacked, which is why she finally ventures, ]
... Are you all right?
[ She's clearly not angry about the revelation, because— well, when she'd told him she wanted him, that had been the wholehearted truth. But she'd wanted to discuss all of this first, to be open about their expectations (considering she had no interest in something purely physical), so this had circumvented all of that in exactly the wrong way. ]
[ He’s just, you know, trying pick himself up after being totally and utterly floored by this.
What a mess.
His mouth has gone dry (well, drier), and he licks his lips a little nervously. They— need to talk about this. They really need to talk about this. Not just this, as in the way they were groping at each other like teenagers at Make-Out Point, but This, as in that Thing. Which makes the unspoken spoken and kind of negates the unspokenness of it, but these days, the mystery of it drives Peter crazy more than he finds it alluring. ]
I, uh.
[ He glances over, something tentative in the way he doesn’t quite turn toward her, in the way he winces a little before he speaks again. ]
[ That intensity in the way she watches him hasn't diminished much, but she isn't glaring at him or acting openly hostile – or attempting to throttle him – so that could be taken as a good sign. She lets him squeak out his answer, lets him try to process everything, but she offers a small nod at his question. ]
I'm fine.
[ Which, fortunately, sounds more level and calm than dismissive. ]
I am... disappointed.
[ Not by the situation itself or the fact that they'd gotten so physical, but— ]
I wanted to have our discussion before anything like this happened.
[ Before it happened – not to prevent it from happening. That's probably the important distinction here: she wanted them to come to an understanding about what this... even is and what they both wanted to avoid doing nothing more than giving into their hormones and tumbling into bed together. She highly doubts they would have gone through with it before dealing with that big, daunting (metaphorical) Terran elephant in the room, so she'd largely assumed they would get around to discussing this, sooner rather than later.
She doesn't want to pretend like it didn't happen, though, and she certainly doesn't want to brush it all aside to become part of that unspoken thing that they really need to speak about. They can't just let it fester or... more precisely, Gamora doesn't want to let it lie between them. If she wanted to ignore it, to act like it never happened and never would happen, she wouldn't be spending so many nights in Peter's bed; she wouldn't be so physically close to him, and she wouldn't be making so many allowances for the way she treats him.
There's a softness in her demeanor around Peter, in those quiet moments together, a sweetness that comes with him. Waking up next to him and running fingers through his hair, curling up against him to sleep and leaving sweet kisses on his shoulder, pressing their foreheads together and simply smiling – it's all for him, all gestures of emotion that she's never been able to express before, and never truly wanted to before Peter.
Too much time has passed, and that unspoken thing has hung between them for too long, and she's tired of it.
She wants him, but— she also needs to know what he needs. ]
[ More punched out of him than voiced. And what he really means to say, it seems, judging by the way his face falls in that brief second, is ow. She continues on, and he lets out a quiet, self-deprecating sort of laugh. Yeah. Yeah, they really needed to talk about it before—
Before.
He heaves out a sigh, before squaring his shoulders, turning to look over at her. Steeling himself for a blow, it looks like, readying himself for battle. ]
Listen, Gamora. Okay. Just— let me talk for a bit. And then you can say whatever you want, but I just— let me babble for a little while, okay?
[ But apparently he doesn't wait for an answer before pressing on. ]
I'm— sorry about that. What happened. Um. [ He winces as the memories rush through his head again.
(Jesus, that had been good.) ] Obviously we can forget that ever happened, and we don't have to talk about it again after this. And that was weird, but I'm pretty sure it's safe to say neither of us were in our right minds right then. But I'm—
[ He cuts off again, jaw clenching— and his gaze drops, shoulders hunching up a little around his ears.
Here it goes. ]
I'm— I really like you, Gamora. Like, like-you, like-you. [ As if that means anything to her. His voice is soft, almost a croak with how uncertainly and reluctantly he casts each word. ] And I want us to do something about that. I think we make a good team now, but I think we could be more, and I think you and I— we'd be good. Together.
And I think— maybe you might feel the same. At least a little? [ He risks a quick glance up, but it's gone just as quickly. ] But maybe I'm wrong, or maybe you're happy with the way things are now, which is fine. So just— we really need to either do something, or you need to tell me to fuck off, because if we don't figure out what the hell we're doing about us, I might literally go insane.
[ A long sort of pause, as he casts for more words, tries to think if there's anything left to say. He's pretty sure he's done enough damage with all of that, and he's almost relieved to finally just. Say it. Even if he's terrified of how Gamora might react, now that the ball is in her court.
He keeps his head bowed, hands twisting at the sheets of his bed. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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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Does your back?
[ Because she has no way of knowing how roughly she might have treated him. ]
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Then he closes it.
Then he just sort of. Stares at her. ]
Why would my...?
[ He trails off, wondering if he wants to know the answer, before he huffs out a breath. He rolls his shoulders, shifting a little – because he assumes she means, like, muscle pain? Maybe she's remember she punched him or something? – and when he does everything without much difficulty, he gives another shake of his head.]
Nothing's wrong. I'm fine.
[ A pause, then he adds on with a wince, rubbing at his temple. ]
Aside from my brain trying to blow itself up.
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Does he... not remember?
She isn't sure if that's gratifying or frustrating, and she just frowns at him for a moment, considering. Maybe it's for the best if he can't remember how ardently that trip to the infirmary had gone. She's— almost embarrassed by how she'd acted, because as much as she'd wanted (wants) him, she'd wanted that conversation to happen.
When they had time.
Though she realizes she did tell him what she wants (all of him, to be precise, not just whatever physical thing they'd been driven to), but—
Maybe that will have to wait for another time. She's not certain how appealing she finds it to remind him again of something happening between them that he can't recall. ]
Should we call for the nurse?
[ Pain medication might not be a poor choice now.
... She, however, is already reaching for the IV in her arm to properly pull it out; she'd partially dislodged the tube when she'd woken, after all, and she highly doubts she still needs it. ]
no subject
He remembers the way Gamora's skin blazed under his fingertips, and he remembers being worried and frightened by it. And he remembers— dark eyes staring at him, and—
Peter glances over, sees the way she's reaching for the tube in her arm, and his thoughts scatter away. He clicks his tongue in disapproval. ]
Hey, hey, hey.
Leave it alone, huh?
no subject
I've already almost entirely dislodged it. I might as well take it out.
[ And it's annoying. ]
If they still think I need it, for some reason, they would have to insert another one anyway.
[ It's such an incredibly minor wound that her body is already trying to heal around where she's displaced it, so she'd need a different one to make sure it's effective.
But, at this point, she's not convinced she requires it – or further medical attention, for that matter. ]
no subject
Just— be careful about it, huh? Don’t yank it out like it’s a sword in a stone.
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[ She says it blandly, clearly missing his reference – but that goes for most Terran analogies – as she starts to work the IV properly out. She hisses with slight discomfort when she pulls it free, and carelessly allows the tube to fall from the side of her bed as she rubs her hand along her arm.
She watches him steadily from her own bed, and then: ]
You look like hell.
[ ... Oh. Charming.
Though there's something in her tone that isn't necessarily a criticism; it's almost apologetic, because she can't help but assume that whatever she had, she'd gone and given it to Peter. She recalls that none of the others were displaying symptoms, and Peter couldn't have come into contact with that residue (if that truly was the culprit), so... logically, it could only have come from her.
She did this to him. ]
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He hears the words first before he recognizes the tone. In response to the words, Peter snorts out a laugh, scrubbing at his face, and with a healthy dose of sarcasm, ]
Aww, Gamora. That’s sweet of you to say.
[ And a half-second later, the way she’s looking at him, the way she sounded finally clicks, and he frowns a little. ]
I’m fine, though. [ Because it bears repeating. He looks like hell, feels like hell, but a part of him recognizes that he’s coming out of something, not falling into it. He’s better, though he doesn’t remember being worse, and it seems Gamora needs the reminder. ]
Whatever happened, you know it’s not your fault, right?
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I clearly gave this to you, however it is transmitted.
[ She'd been in close quarters with the others and they hadn't gotten it, so... ]
I have no idea if it was contact or saliva or... what else it could be.
[ —but had he already been displaying symptoms before she kissed him? The finer details are fuzzy, the timeline mildly skewed, and she can't place all the events in the right order.
She remembers the kissing quite vividly, though. ]
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[ Considering he’s mostly Terran, now. Without the Light feeding into him – however that worked – Peter’s pretty sure the death of his father puts him at a much higher risk than he had been before he knew anything about his heritage. Not that he mentions it much to the others. ]
You and I went through certain parts of the warehouse that the other guys di— wait, what? Saliva? What?
no subject
Oh. ]
Yes. Saliva.
[ And now she looks... unimpressed. ]
Do you not remember any of that?
[ Though this is more a question of her own lucidity at the time than anything else. ]
no subject
[ He brings a hand up to his brow again, apparently too flustered to think straight. He was on the verge of something, just a few seconds ago, but he'd been distracted. He just needs to get on that train of thought again, but he's still busy thinking, what the hell to find it properly. ]
What, did you lick me or something?
no subject
No.
[ She sighs, straightening up and resting her arms on her knees as she looks over at him. ]
I kissed you. A lot.
[ Nearly nonstop, as she recalls. ]
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[ what what what.
Okay. He's pulling both hands down his face, now racking his brain. Too-hot skin beneath his hands, that unruly spike of fear, of deja vu. Dark, blazing eyes pinning him in place—
I want you.
Don't you dare stop touching me.
Sharp lines of pain down his back. The taste of salt. The heat of soft lips—
Holy fuck.
Peter feels his face heat – embarrassment, of course. (Not because as the memories flood back, he realizes how fucking hot and heavy that had nearly gotten.) With his hands over his mouth, he echoes faintly, ]
You... did.
[ Holy fuck. Holy fuck.
Holy fuck. ]
what the fuck i never got this notif....
(Because it was a lot. There hadn't been any actual sex, but... she's almost entirely certain they would have gone through with it if the fever hadn't been driving their bodies to the point of exhaustion.)
But he also looks thoroughly gobsmacked, which is why she finally ventures, ]
... Are you all right?
[ She's clearly not angry about the revelation, because— well, when she'd told him she wanted him, that had been the wholehearted truth. But she'd wanted to discuss all of this first, to be open about their expectations (considering she had no interest in something purely physical), so this had circumvented all of that in exactly the wrong way. ]
no subject
[ He’s just, you know, trying pick himself up after being totally and utterly floored by this.
What a mess.
His mouth has gone dry (well, drier), and he licks his lips a little nervously. They— need to talk about this. They really need to talk about this. Not just this, as in the way they were groping at each other like teenagers at Make-Out Point, but This, as in that Thing. Which makes the unspoken spoken and kind of negates the unspokenness of it, but these days, the mystery of it drives Peter crazy more than he finds it alluring. ]
I, uh.
[ He glances over, something tentative in the way he doesn’t quite turn toward her, in the way he winces a little before he speaks again. ]
Are you?
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I'm fine.
[ Which, fortunately, sounds more level and calm than dismissive. ]
I am... disappointed.
[ Not by the situation itself or the fact that they'd gotten so physical, but— ]
I wanted to have our discussion before anything like this happened.
[ Before it happened – not to prevent it from happening. That's probably the important distinction here: she wanted them to come to an understanding about what this... even is and what they both wanted to avoid doing nothing more than giving into their hormones and tumbling into bed together. She highly doubts they would have gone through with it before dealing with that big, daunting (metaphorical) Terran elephant in the room, so she'd largely assumed they would get around to discussing this, sooner rather than later.
She doesn't want to pretend like it didn't happen, though, and she certainly doesn't want to brush it all aside to become part of that unspoken thing that they really need to speak about. They can't just let it fester or... more precisely, Gamora doesn't want to let it lie between them. If she wanted to ignore it, to act like it never happened and never would happen, she wouldn't be spending so many nights in Peter's bed; she wouldn't be so physically close to him, and she wouldn't be making so many allowances for the way she treats him.
There's a softness in her demeanor around Peter, in those quiet moments together, a sweetness that comes with him. Waking up next to him and running fingers through his hair, curling up against him to sleep and leaving sweet kisses on his shoulder, pressing their foreheads together and simply smiling – it's all for him, all gestures of emotion that she's never been able to express before, and never truly wanted to before Peter.
Too much time has passed, and that unspoken thing has hung between them for too long, and she's tired of it.
She wants him, but— she also needs to know what he needs. ]
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Oh.
[ More punched out of him than voiced. And what he really means to say, it seems, judging by the way his face falls in that brief second, is ow. She continues on, and he lets out a quiet, self-deprecating sort of laugh. Yeah. Yeah, they really needed to talk about it before—
Before.
He heaves out a sigh, before squaring his shoulders, turning to look over at her. Steeling himself for a blow, it looks like, readying himself for battle. ]
Listen, Gamora. Okay. Just— let me talk for a bit. And then you can say whatever you want, but I just— let me babble for a little while, okay?
[ But apparently he doesn't wait for an answer before pressing on. ]
I'm— sorry about that. What happened. Um. [ He winces as the memories rush through his head again.
(Jesus, that had been good.) ] Obviously we can forget that ever happened, and we don't have to talk about it again after this. And that was weird, but I'm pretty sure it's safe to say neither of us were in our right minds right then. But I'm—
[ He cuts off again, jaw clenching— and his gaze drops, shoulders hunching up a little around his ears.
Here it goes. ]
I'm— I really like you, Gamora. Like, like-you, like-you. [ As if that means anything to her. His voice is soft, almost a croak with how uncertainly and reluctantly he casts each word. ] And I want us to do something about that. I think we make a good team now, but I think we could be more, and I think you and I— we'd be good. Together.
And I think— maybe you might feel the same. At least a little? [ He risks a quick glance up, but it's gone just as quickly. ] But maybe I'm wrong, or maybe you're happy with the way things are now, which is fine. So just— we really need to either do something, or you need to tell me to fuck off, because if we don't figure out what the hell we're doing about us, I might literally go insane.
[ A long sort of pause, as he casts for more words, tries to think if there's anything left to say. He's pretty sure he's done enough damage with all of that, and he's almost relieved to finally just. Say it. Even if he's terrified of how Gamora might react, now that the ball is in her court.
He keeps his head bowed, hands twisting at the sheets of his bed. ]
... Pretty sure that's all I've got.
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