[ 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. ]
She's a patient person, after all, and she has no need to interrupt him, especially when this is exactly what they need to say to each other — this clarification, this extrapolation of a long-standing, nearly exhausting run-around they've continued to do with this thing between them. They've danced along the boundaries of it for so long that it's become this humming uncertainty that feels like a live wire, ready to shock them both with just a touch.
But now, here they are, grabbing a hold of that wire and waiting for the electricity and not caring.
At first, she braces herself. She doesn't entirely know what Peter will say; she has her suspicions, her hopes, and though Mantis had gone ahead and said so much for him months ago, that hadn't been... clear enough ("romantic, sexual love" could have meant any number of things with Peter, and she'd needed to hear it from him). But as he continues on, that tension starts to ease, bit by bit, and she lets the words spill out of him. He seems to be growing progressively more uncertain, and she can't blame him with how exposed he's made himself, how open he's being with something potentially catastrophic, something that is so personal and sensitive.
She understands his anxiety, and instead of interpreting his fumbles or the set of his shoulders or the bow of his head as a tell, as a lie, she reads it for what it is: nervous vulnerability.
Honesty.
Sincerity.
Hope?
Gamora remains quiet, parsing through everything he's said. She feels that warm curl in her chest light itself all over again, making her heart flutter as she considers him from her own bed. Of all the things Peter could have said, this is what she most wanted to hear.
Another moment, and then Gamora is pushing the blankets away from her legs. Moving is somewhat difficult, if only because of how stiff her muscles feel after days in that hospital bed, but she manages to get to her feet, to walk the few steps from her own mattress to Peter's. ]
Move over.
[ She nudges him slightly, because she wants a place to sit before she properly addresses everything he's just dropped into her lap. ]
She's. Really quiet. And he can feel her staring at him.
Oh god.
He might actually rip the blankets apart with how tightly he's winding them up in his hands.
Her bed creaks as she stands, and he lifts his head to watch her approach. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and at her direction, he shifts over, the aches from the fever forgotten with how— heavy everything feels. How awkward and uncertain. They're teetering on the point of a needle, but they've been putting this off too long. They need to fall, one way or the other. ]
[ Now is not the time for sarcasm, not with how tightly wound he is and how serious everything he just said happens to be, so she avoids anything droll.
Instead, she reaches out to lightly try to uncurl his fingers from his blankets, to smooth away some of the tension. ]
I think you are right about us.
[ Quiet, tentative, because this is— huge. Dangerous. ]
I value you as my friend. [ Her best friend. ] But I want more.
[ Because she's loved having that contact with him, loved being close to him, and even if so much of that incident in the infirmary had been the fever overtaking her, she'd wanted that (and thought about it far more times than she probably should have). But setting aside the sexual nature of that encounter, she's adored every night spent in his bed, all of the quiet sweetness they've exchanged, the days spent dancing and holding hands, being— something. ]
I have... never felt like this for anyone before. [ She's never had the opportunity, never allowed herself. ] So I'm concerned I may not proceed in the best way, but—
[ She turns her eyes up to meet his, that intensity, that sincerity in her gaze. ]
I want you. In more than physical means.
I'm just uncertain I'll know how that's supposed to look for us.
[ But she wants that intimacy and that connection she's felt with him, and she wants to be with him. She may not have any experience or any real frame of reference (except for her parents, and she remembers how happy they'd been, how much they'd loved each other), but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to try. ]
[ His jaw clenches when she places her hand over his, as she tries to untangle his fingers from the way they clutch at the fabric of his blankets. Eventually, he forces his fingers to relax, but he can do little about the faint, adrenaline-fueled tremor that shakes his hands. He’s nervous. He’s scared. It’s like sitting on a rollercoaster, slowly climbing higher and higher, knowing the drop is coming and wondering faintly if the fall will lead to disaster.
But he watches her carefully (even if a part of him wants to look away to save himself some shame), swallows around the lump blocking his throat. He lets her speak, and even if he was steeling himself to be let down gently, each word that falls from her lips makes that ache in his chest twist and twist and twist until it bursts, flooding him with a golden warmth that steals his breath, that puts a soft, crooked smile on his face.
It’s a stupid smile. He knows it’s a stupid smile. He needs to stop smiling this stupid smile, because he looks stupid, but he can’t get rid of it. ]
It doesn’t have to look much different.
[ ... okay. Peter’s actually kind of talking out of his ass, here, because he doesn’t know much more than Gamora, if he’s honest. But what he has that Gamora doesn’t is years and years of pop culture, of watching some of the best romances unfold on the silver screen and on TV. ]
We stay friends. [ Best friends. And it’s important that he say this first off, because if it doesn’t work out? He wants them to stay friends. ] But maybe we— I dunno. Maybe you’ll let me hold your hand sometimes when we’re walking around. And maybe I’ll loan you my jackets more when it’s cold. And maybe, every once in a while—
[ He pauses. He’s trying his luck, he knows, but he puts it forward anyway, voice slightly tentative, with a teasing edge to lessen the quiet little thread of hope, ]
[ Oh, but that smile. She's seen it rarely, in sweeter moments with him, and she adores it. The softness of it, the openness, how warm and wholly Peter it is without pretention. He looks happy, in that heartfelt way that makes her chest bloom with warmth.
(She's come to realize that there's little more she wants than to see Peter happy.)
Her fingers lace properly with Peter's, her thumb brushing the back of his hand as her own smile manages to curl at the corners of her lips. A reflection of that sweetness. ]
I would like that.
[ With a quick clarification: ]
All of that.
[ And because she knows how carefully he was walking that line, how tentatively he's tested the waters, she leans closer across the bed and sets a hand next to his hip to brace herself. She considers him quietly for all of a few heartbeats, and then finally, she brushes a kiss against his cheek. It's— almost a way of saying thank you, because she realizes that she wants everything he's laid out for them. To be his friend and just— more.
She doesn't think much has to change, but... they can simply add to it now. ]
[ Impossibly, his smile widens at her agreement, as their fingers lace together. ]
Good. Great. Awesome.
[ And he forgets how to breath as she leans in, goes stock-still as she studies him. Her lips brush against his cheek, and considering the kind of stuff Peter got up to before he and Gamora started dancing around each other, a kiss like that is hardly anything. But it warms him, all the same, makes something sweet curl in him, and his fingers tighten a little around hers. ]
So— we’re doing this? You and me? We’re— like. Together? Together-together, I mean.
[ The kiss may be fairly slight by comparison, but it still holds meaning to her: she wouldn't offer anything of the sort to anyone else. She feels this way about Peter, and that's massively different.
She offers a nod, squeezing his hand lightly. ]
Yes. Together-together.
[ ... Whatever that actually means.
(Why doesn't he simply say "together" and leave it at that?) ]
I mean. [ He clears his throat, shoulders rolling a little as he tries to regain that confident air. ] Yes. Yeah. That's what I want, as long as you do.
[ Gamora doesn't quite laugh, but her huff of a breath is still warm, pleased. He'd responded so quickly that it's much easier to take him at face value. ]
I do.
[ And to offer more reassurance, to make sure he knows she means it, she leans in again, and this time, she presses her lips properly against his. It's different from the night of the motel, where it had been driven so much by emotion and a fear of loss, of wanting to have something real to cling to. She'd wanted to feel grounded and alive, and that had tangled itself together in a mess of her outstanding feelings for Peter.
Those kisses resolved no questions, but only created more.
[ It's— soft, and sweet, the kiss she presses against his lips. It's chaste, and again, not what Peter's used to, when shit got hot and heavy in the dark corners of bars and clubs, with drinks flowing and hormones flying.
Peter had kind of figured that the first time they properly kissed, if they ever did at all, they'd be on a hilltop or something. Under the stars. Or maybe in the privacy of one of their rooms, sitting hip to hip in the silence of the ship. Or finding a moment of peace on one of their little not-dates, turning to one another and feeling something click. Leaning forward until their lips pressed.
... But this is better.
When she pulls away, he puts on that awful, stupid, uncool smile, but it's hard to care about that right now. The softness of her lips, the warmth of them, still lingers against his, and he wants to feel it. Again.
And again.
And again.
And he feels like the luckiest bastard in the universe.
He reaches up, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear – reverent and fond and man, he loves her hair. ]
[ And there's that smile, back again, warm and unrestrained (and she wouldn't have it any other way). That soft smile of her own hasn't gone anywhere, either, and she isn't preoccupied with maintaining appearances, not with how that warm thing in her chest flutters and dances with delight. Being close to him, having... understanding makes all the difference in the world, and despite their surroundings, she's so at ease.
Her hair is a mess, curls everywhere, but she appreciates that little gesture, the way he just reaches out to lightly brush her hair away from her face. (Where so many months ago, she might have bristled at the touch, now she likes that he just does it without hesitating, instead of treating her like an animal liable to bite.)
She gives a small shrug in response, though it isn't an attempt to deflect. ]
Better. My mind is clear and the fever seems to have disappeared entirely, but I am still somewhat sore. Even that seems to be easing the longer I'm awake.
And you?
[ Admittedly, she's much more concerned about Peter's wellbeing. Whatever that was hit him far faster than it did her, and his system could be more easily compromised; the fact that it was able to overtake her at all means that it was something terrifyingly intense. ]
[ He's almost shocked that she gives him an honest, straightforward answer. A part of him expected her to dismiss it all again, to tell him she's fine, she's fine, that he needs to stop worrying so much. But she doesn't, and maybe that's because of what a shitty turn things took if it landed them both here.
However it was they ended up in a hospital room, anyway.
At her question, reflex has him say, ]
I'm fine.
[ — which, after everything he just thought, makes him something of a hypocrite. ]
Tired. Sore. [ He still thinks his brain is on a countdown to exploding, but that's whatever. ] But I'll live.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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?
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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. ]
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[ 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?
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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. ]
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[ 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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She's a patient person, after all, and she has no need to interrupt him, especially when this is exactly what they need to say to each other — this clarification, this extrapolation of a long-standing, nearly exhausting run-around they've continued to do with this thing between them. They've danced along the boundaries of it for so long that it's become this humming uncertainty that feels like a live wire, ready to shock them both with just a touch.
But now, here they are, grabbing a hold of that wire and waiting for the electricity and not caring.
At first, she braces herself. She doesn't entirely know what Peter will say; she has her suspicions, her hopes, and though Mantis had gone ahead and said so much for him months ago, that hadn't been... clear enough ("romantic, sexual love" could have meant any number of things with Peter, and she'd needed to hear it from him). But as he continues on, that tension starts to ease, bit by bit, and she lets the words spill out of him. He seems to be growing progressively more uncertain, and she can't blame him with how exposed he's made himself, how open he's being with something potentially catastrophic, something that is so personal and sensitive.
She understands his anxiety, and instead of interpreting his fumbles or the set of his shoulders or the bow of his head as a tell, as a lie, she reads it for what it is: nervous vulnerability.
Honesty.
Sincerity.
Hope?
Gamora remains quiet, parsing through everything he's said. She feels that warm curl in her chest light itself all over again, making her heart flutter as she considers him from her own bed. Of all the things Peter could have said, this is what she most wanted to hear.
Another moment, and then Gamora is pushing the blankets away from her legs. Moving is somewhat difficult, if only because of how stiff her muscles feel after days in that hospital bed, but she manages to get to her feet, to walk the few steps from her own mattress to Peter's. ]
Move over.
[ She nudges him slightly, because she wants a place to sit before she properly addresses everything he's just dropped into her lap. ]
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She's. Really quiet. And he can feel her staring at him.
Oh god.
He might actually rip the blankets apart with how tightly he's winding them up in his hands.
Her bed creaks as she stands, and he lifts his head to watch her approach. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and at her direction, he shifts over, the aches from the fever forgotten with how— heavy everything feels. How awkward and uncertain. They're teetering on the point of a needle, but they've been putting this off too long. They need to fall, one way or the other. ]
Are you— gonna say anything, or...?
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Instead, she reaches out to lightly try to uncurl his fingers from his blankets, to smooth away some of the tension. ]
I think you are right about us.
[ Quiet, tentative, because this is— huge. Dangerous. ]
I value you as my friend. [ Her best friend. ] But I want more.
[ Because she's loved having that contact with him, loved being close to him, and even if so much of that incident in the infirmary had been the fever overtaking her, she'd wanted that (and thought about it far more times than she probably should have). But setting aside the sexual nature of that encounter, she's adored every night spent in his bed, all of the quiet sweetness they've exchanged, the days spent dancing and holding hands, being— something. ]
I have... never felt like this for anyone before. [ She's never had the opportunity, never allowed herself. ] So I'm concerned I may not proceed in the best way, but—
[ She turns her eyes up to meet his, that intensity, that sincerity in her gaze. ]
I want you. In more than physical means.
I'm just uncertain I'll know how that's supposed to look for us.
[ But she wants that intimacy and that connection she's felt with him, and she wants to be with him. She may not have any experience or any real frame of reference (except for her parents, and she remembers how happy they'd been, how much they'd loved each other), but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to try. ]
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But he watches her carefully (even if a part of him wants to look away to save himself some shame), swallows around the lump blocking his throat. He lets her speak, and even if he was steeling himself to be let down gently, each word that falls from her lips makes that ache in his chest twist and twist and twist until it bursts, flooding him with a golden warmth that steals his breath, that puts a soft, crooked smile on his face.
It’s a stupid smile. He knows it’s a stupid smile. He needs to stop smiling this stupid smile, because he looks stupid, but he can’t get rid of it. ]
It doesn’t have to look much different.
[ ... okay. Peter’s actually kind of talking out of his ass, here, because he doesn’t know much more than Gamora, if he’s honest. But what he has that Gamora doesn’t is years and years of pop culture, of watching some of the best romances unfold on the silver screen and on TV. ]
We stay friends. [ Best friends. And it’s important that he say this first off, because if it doesn’t work out? He wants them to stay friends. ] But maybe we— I dunno. Maybe you’ll let me hold your hand sometimes when we’re walking around. And maybe I’ll loan you my jackets more when it’s cold. And maybe, every once in a while—
[ He pauses. He’s trying his luck, he knows, but he puts it forward anyway, voice slightly tentative, with a teasing edge to lessen the quiet little thread of hope, ]
—maybe you’ll let me kiss you.
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(She's come to realize that there's little more she wants than to see Peter happy.)
Her fingers lace properly with Peter's, her thumb brushing the back of his hand as her own smile manages to curl at the corners of her lips. A reflection of that sweetness. ]
I would like that.
[ With a quick clarification: ]
All of that.
[ And because she knows how carefully he was walking that line, how tentatively he's tested the waters, she leans closer across the bed and sets a hand next to his hip to brace herself. She considers him quietly for all of a few heartbeats, and then finally, she brushes a kiss against his cheek. It's— almost a way of saying thank you, because she realizes that she wants everything he's laid out for them. To be his friend and just— more.
She doesn't think much has to change, but... they can simply add to it now. ]
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Good. Great. Awesome.
[ And he forgets how to breath as she leans in, goes stock-still as she studies him. Her lips brush against his cheek, and considering the kind of stuff Peter got up to before he and Gamora started dancing around each other, a kiss like that is hardly anything. But it warms him, all the same, makes something sweet curl in him, and his fingers tighten a little around hers. ]
So— we’re doing this? You and me? We’re— like. Together? Together-together, I mean.
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She offers a nod, squeezing his hand lightly. ]
Yes. Together-together.
[ ... Whatever that actually means.
(Why doesn't he simply say "together" and leave it at that?) ]
As long as this is what we both want.
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[ ... oh, shit. That answer was too quick. ]
I mean. [ He clears his throat, shoulders rolling a little as he tries to regain that confident air. ] Yes. Yeah. That's what I want, as long as you do.
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I do.
[ And to offer more reassurance, to make sure he knows she means it, she leans in again, and this time, she presses her lips properly against his. It's different from the night of the motel, where it had been driven so much by emotion and a fear of loss, of wanting to have something real to cling to. She'd wanted to feel grounded and alive, and that had tangled itself together in a mess of her outstanding feelings for Peter.
Those kisses resolved no questions, but only created more.
This kiss is an answer. A promise. ]
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Peter had kind of figured that the first time they properly kissed, if they ever did at all, they'd be on a hilltop or something. Under the stars. Or maybe in the privacy of one of their rooms, sitting hip to hip in the silence of the ship. Or finding a moment of peace on one of their little not-dates, turning to one another and feeling something click. Leaning forward until their lips pressed.
... But this is better.
When she pulls away, he puts on that awful, stupid, uncool smile, but it's hard to care about that right now. The softness of her lips, the warmth of them, still lingers against his, and he wants to feel it. Again.
And again.
And again.
And he feels like the luckiest bastard in the universe.
He reaches up, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear – reverent and fond and man, he loves her hair. ]
How are you feeling? Honestly.
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Her hair is a mess, curls everywhere, but she appreciates that little gesture, the way he just reaches out to lightly brush her hair away from her face. (Where so many months ago, she might have bristled at the touch, now she likes that he just does it without hesitating, instead of treating her like an animal liable to bite.)
She gives a small shrug in response, though it isn't an attempt to deflect. ]
Better. My mind is clear and the fever seems to have disappeared entirely, but I am still somewhat sore. Even that seems to be easing the longer I'm awake.
And you?
[ Admittedly, she's much more concerned about Peter's wellbeing. Whatever that was hit him far faster than it did her, and his system could be more easily compromised; the fact that it was able to overtake her at all means that it was something terrifyingly intense. ]
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However it was they ended up in a hospital room, anyway.
At her question, reflex has him say, ]
I'm fine.
[ — which, after everything he just thought, makes him something of a hypocrite. ]
Tired. Sore. [ He still thinks his brain is on a countdown to exploding, but that's whatever. ] But I'll live.
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