It's a goddamn luxury, not needing to deal with the thumping bass of music played in a distant apartment, the banging of footsteps on his roof, the noise of shouting and laughing and cursing in the halls. There's no risk of someone banging on his door and alerting him that So-And-So got caught doing some Stupid Shit again, and that they were in need of bailing.
It's blessedly quiet, and the bed is soft and plush and warm, and even if Gamora wasn't paying him a ridiculous amount of money, he'd be more than willing to spend the week with her just for the chance at a decent night's sleep.
When Gamora takes her leave, he's none the wiser, sleeping through her near-silent exit.
It's only when he hears a sharp, metallic clatter that he finally jerks awake, pushing himself up on an elbow and instinctively turning to look at the door. Living in such a shitty neighborhood in such a shitty apartment means he immediately assumes break-in. He glances to the space beside him on the bed, and he has the abrupt, stomach-clenching realization that Gamora isn't there. He gets out of bed quickly, clicking on the bedside lamp. He throws on a pair of sweats, tugs on his old, threadbare tanktop, and as he dresses in record time, he has a couple seconds to wake up a little more and think.
It's— probably safe to assume that was Gamora, right? And that it wasn't, in fact, a burglar, as much as his hyperactive imagination insists?
He steels himself, moving toward the door, but someone beats him to it. The door opens, and Gamora steps in, clad all in black.
The metallic scent hits him first before he can register anything else, and he looks down to where her hands are pressed against her side, slick with blood. For a second, he feels like he's been punched in the stomach, and he just stands there, staring, too thunderstruck to properly react.
Then, like a computer suddenly unfreezing, he rushes forward, that blank, stunned expression immediately replaced with fear and worry. ]
bless u
It's a goddamn luxury, not needing to deal with the thumping bass of music played in a distant apartment, the banging of footsteps on his roof, the noise of shouting and laughing and cursing in the halls. There's no risk of someone banging on his door and alerting him that So-And-So got caught doing some Stupid Shit again, and that they were in need of bailing.
It's blessedly quiet, and the bed is soft and plush and warm, and even if Gamora wasn't paying him a ridiculous amount of money, he'd be more than willing to spend the week with her just for the chance at a decent night's sleep.
When Gamora takes her leave, he's none the wiser, sleeping through her near-silent exit.
It's only when he hears a sharp, metallic clatter that he finally jerks awake, pushing himself up on an elbow and instinctively turning to look at the door. Living in such a shitty neighborhood in such a shitty apartment means he immediately assumes break-in. He glances to the space beside him on the bed, and he has the abrupt, stomach-clenching realization that Gamora isn't there. He gets out of bed quickly, clicking on the bedside lamp. He throws on a pair of sweats, tugs on his old, threadbare tanktop, and as he dresses in record time, he has a couple seconds to wake up a little more and think.
It's— probably safe to assume that was Gamora, right? And that it wasn't, in fact, a burglar, as much as his hyperactive imagination insists?
He steels himself, moving toward the door, but someone beats him to it. The door opens, and Gamora steps in, clad all in black.
The metallic scent hits him first before he can register anything else, and he looks down to where her hands are pressed against her side, slick with blood. For a second, he feels like he's been punched in the stomach, and he just stands there, staring, too thunderstruck to properly react.
Then, like a computer suddenly unfreezing, he rushes forward, that blank, stunned expression immediately replaced with fear and worry. ]
What the fuck happened?