[ 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.
[ That reflexive answer of his earns a flat look, not entirely banishing the softness in her eyes, but displeased nonetheless. She could have brushed him aside with her own response, but considering she didn't, she doesn't appreciate the disregard.
But he tries to make up for it, so she's willing to let it slide.
Mostly. ]
It seems obvious we both will, if we're here now.
[ They hadn't succumbed to the fever, so that must be an improvement. ]
[ He huffs out a self-deprecating sort of laugh. ]
Just a hangover from hell. But I've had worse.
[ The night after he had spilled his guts to Gamora about how much he liked her, for instance. He still doesn't realize he had confessed everything to her, already, but he does remember waking up feeling like death warmed over. ]
We oughta figure out where everyone else is. I'm assumin' if they aren't in here, they probably didn't get a whiff of whatever shit we did.
[ He looks a little disappointed when she pulls away, but considering she seems to be much further along on the recovery thing than Peter is, he lets her go.
He lies back in his bed, rubbing circles at his temples, but when he hears Gamora's exasperation, he looks up. ]
[ She tries the door twice more in demonstration, and it clearly refuses to open. ]
They've locked us in.
[ She glares at the door, and though she's inclined to break it down, she decides to refrain. She knocks on it instead, peering out of the small window into the dimly-lit hallway. She can't see much, and she doesn't earn a response from the knocking, so she reluctantly steps away with a disgruntled huff. ]
[ A cursory look around the room, before Gamora spots the panel near Peter's bed. A button is lit and ready to be pressed, with a little "help" symbol on it.
Well, that should be useful.
She goes over to hit the button, and it sinks into the panel in response with a soft "bing!"
... No one immediately appears at the door, which is already unacceptable, but Gamora settles herself back onto the edge of Peter's bed to wait. ]
There had better be an explanation for all of this.
[ Gamora purses her lips, agitated by the fact they have to wait. Despite that, she still reaches out to set her hand on Peter's knee, continuing to glance towards the door as they wait.
Fortunately, it doesn't take too long before the door is unlocking, and in steps a Krylorian in a uniform. She smiles brightly at them, and Gamora takes note of the fact that she isn't wearing a hazmat suit or otherwise.
Does that mean the room itself isn't contaminated? ]
How nice to see you both awake finally.
[ Gamora's eyes narrow slightly. ]
How long were we asleep?
Nearly five days. Ah, I see you've removed your IV. [ The nurse tuts quietly. ] We should replace that.
I don't need it.
Your body could still do with some additional hydrati—
I am fine. [ Gamora is exceedingly adamant about that part. ]
[ It's a relief, at least, when someone steps in not covered head to toe, like something out of the Andromeda Strain. It bodes well for the state of their illness, whatever the hell that was, and he feels a part of him relax a little.
(The rest of him is still buzzing, though, with familiar agitation over being in a hospital.
The sooner they leave, the better.)
He watches the exchange between Gamora and what he assumes to be a nurse – five days? What the fuck? – and when the woman tuts over the IV, Peter frowns. ]
Gamora.
[ Softly, not disapproving, but something that quietly says, "Mind the tone."
To the nurse, ]
It'll be a much easier time for all of us if you just let her chug some water instead.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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...?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
(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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
But he tries to make up for it, so she's willing to let it slide.
Mostly. ]
It seems obvious we both will, if we're here now.
[ They hadn't succumbed to the fever, so that must be an improvement. ]
Tired and sore – is that all?
no subject
Just a hangover from hell. But I've had worse.
[ The night after he had spilled his guts to Gamora about how much he liked her, for instance. He still doesn't realize he had confessed everything to her, already, but he does remember waking up feeling like death warmed over. ]
We oughta figure out where everyone else is. I'm assumin' if they aren't in here, they probably didn't get a whiff of whatever shit we did.
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I could see if I can find someone who works here. They may have answers for us.
[ Reluctantly, Gamora draws away from Peter, going to check the door.
... It, of course, is locked. ]
... Really?
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He lies back in his bed, rubbing circles at his temples, but when he hears Gamora's exasperation, he looks up. ]
What? What's wrong?
no subject
They've locked us in.
[ She glares at the door, and though she's inclined to break it down, she decides to refrain. She knocks on it instead, peering out of the small window into the dimly-lit hallway. She can't see much, and she doesn't earn a response from the knocking, so she reluctantly steps away with a disgruntled huff. ]
Is it possible we're contagious?
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That's worrying.
And by worrying, it's actually kind of... uh.
Well. It's not good, Peter thinks, and he's back to sitting up in bed. ]
Maybe. [ Uncertainly. ] Or maybe they didn't know what they were dealing with and decided better safe than sorry.
[ He casts around, looking for some kind of call button.
A little tensely, ] Kinda don't like the idea of bein' stuck in here.
no subject
[ A cursory look around the room, before Gamora spots the panel near Peter's bed. A button is lit and ready to be pressed, with a little "help" symbol on it.
Well, that should be useful.
She goes over to hit the button, and it sinks into the panel in response with a soft "bing!"
... No one immediately appears at the door, which is already unacceptable, but Gamora settles herself back onto the edge of Peter's bed to wait. ]
There had better be an explanation for all of this.
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How did he miss that?
He huffs out a breath, flopping back into bed again as he brings up both hands to his face. ]
Other than "hey, we thought it'd be fun to lock you crazy kids into a room and see how long it took for you guys to go stir crazy?"
Yeah. Agreed. 100%. They'd better let us out soon, too.
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Fortunately, it doesn't take too long before the door is unlocking, and in steps a Krylorian in a uniform. She smiles brightly at them, and Gamora takes note of the fact that she isn't wearing a hazmat suit or otherwise.
Does that mean the room itself isn't contaminated? ]
How nice to see you both awake finally.
[ Gamora's eyes narrow slightly. ]
How long were we asleep?
Nearly five days. Ah, I see you've removed your IV. [ The nurse tuts quietly. ] We should replace that.
I don't need it.
Your body could still do with some additional hydrati—
I am fine. [ Gamora is exceedingly adamant about that part. ]
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(The rest of him is still buzzing, though, with familiar agitation over being in a hospital.
The sooner they leave, the better.)
He watches the exchange between Gamora and what he assumes to be a nurse – five days? What the fuck? – and when the woman tuts over the IV, Peter frowns. ]
Gamora.
[ Softly, not disapproving, but something that quietly says, "Mind the tone."
To the nurse, ]
It'll be a much easier time for all of us if you just let her chug some water instead.
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That may be allowable. I'll have some water brought in.
[ But she wanders over to a panel next to Peter's bed, gently expanding the holo screen to take a look at his vitals. ]
Your fever broke about twelve hours ago. How are you feeling now?
[ At this question, however, Gamora also looks pointedly over at Peter again. ]
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Peter grimaces at that bit of news, rubbing at his forehead. ]
Fine.
[ Apparently both of them are just going to be awful patients. ]
Nothing a nap won't fix.
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