pretty (wo)man

[godslay]

Comments

[nostalgiabomb]

[ For a second, he flashes her a completely incredulous look, though he quickly follows it up with, ]

Are you kidding me?

[ With her coming in the way she has, dressed like the burglar he had been trying to convince himself wasn't lurking in the living room, bleeding like hell, he definitely wants an explanation.

But he clenches his jaw, teeth clenched so tightly he thinks something at the hinge of his jaw must pop, but he forces himself to shift gears. There are, in fact, more pressing matters.

Like, you know. The fact that Gamora is bleeding like hell.

He moves to her bad side, offering an arm to help support her. ]

Bathroom, right?

[godslay]

[ Reasonably, Gamora understands why demanding that Peter follow her instructions without question would be incredibly difficult – and bordering beyond unreasonable. But she's also bleeding, and that's a more immediately concern than explaining herself.

(She has no idea how she's going to explain this to him.

She can't leave him alive after this, can she?

God, she doesn't want to think about that.)

Reluctantly, she accepts Peter's offered arm with a nod. She leans on him until they reach the bathroom sink, and then she sets the triage kit down and starts trying to pull her shirt over her head with one arm. ]

Will you— [ A wince. ] There's gauze in the kit.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ His mind is racing as they make the relatively short trek to the bathroom – though it feels like it takes forever, with the stench of blood hitting him full force now that he's at Gamora's elbow.

When she tugs at the shirt, he gets a better view of the wound, and something cold falls in his gut, makes it hard to breathe.

His gaze snaps up to her face when she speaks, and he nods a little numbly, opening the kit and fishing out the gauze. ]

You should really go to a hospital.

[godslay]

I'm not going to a hospital.

[ She says it flatly as she drops the ripped, bloodied shirt to the tile. She leans against the counter to get a look at the wound – a graze, far from the worst she's ever had, before she reaches out to take the gauze from Peter. She plucks out the disinfectant, unceremoniously wetting the gauze, and then proceeding to press it against the source of the bleeding.

She hisses out a short sound, a curse under her breath, but she stubbornly holds the dressing in place. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He winces when she presses the gauze to her side, when he sees how clearly in pain she is.

Fuck, he feels useless.

He chews on his lower lip for a second, feeling entirely out of his depth, before gesturing for her to take a seat on the lip of the tub. His hands are shaking a little as he picks up the kit. ]

Tell me what you need me to do.

[godslay]

[ A little numbly, Gamora moves over to the tub, easing herself down as carefully as she can. She maintains the pressure on her side (as much as her body screams at her for it).

She looks up at him, guarded and confused, because he's— offering to help, not bolting for the door. ]

... You don't have to do any of this, Peter.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out a scoffing sound. ]

Sure. 'Cause I'd feel real good about twiddling my thumbs in the bedroom while you're in here, bleeding on the tile.

[ That at least shakes him from his daze, and he visibly steels himself after a deep, rallying breath. ]

Just tell me what you need.

[godslay]

[ History, training, and her entire life tells her to shove Peter away. She needs to handle this herself, alone, and probably dispatch him—

No.

She averts her eyes finally, looking down to triage kit. ]

I need you to help me clean the siite and look for any shrapnel.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He nods a little too tightly as he kneels on the floor, depositing the kit on the edge of the bath. He digs through, hands shaking a little from nerves, and he finds a pair of tweezers and another packet of gauze. ]

You're gonna have to walk me through this.

[ He's done a lot of weird shit, but field medicine hasn't made it to that list. ]

[godslay]

[ Gamora nods as she reluctantly pulls the gauze from the wound. The bleeding has slowed noticeably, but it's still messy with coagulating red near the site. ]

Wet one of the hand towels; we need better visibility first.

Clean the blood until you can see the edges of the wound.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He nods, tugging one of the towels off the bar in front of the sink and wetting it with warm water from the tub's faucet.

He offers a quick, apologetic glance before he carefully wipes the blood away from her side, working his way up to the wound itself. It takes a few rinses of the towel under the warm water before he clears enough of the blood away to get a better look at the injury. ]

I take it you've done this before.

[ She has plenty of scars as proof, after all, which explains at least one small thing.

On the other hand, it also opens up a million, billion more questions. ]

[godslay]

[ Gamora holds herself still as Peter cleans away the blood, tense – trusting, despite the vulnerable position she's in. She's wounded, in pain, and unarmed; this would be the perfect opportunity to lash out at her, to take her out, but—

Peter is just cleaning her up.

Nothing more. ]

Yes.

[ It's a blunt, honest answer. She doesn't try to downplay her experience, but she also doesn't offer him further details.

Reaching for the triage kit, she pulls out a small penlight, flicking it on and lifting her arm again. She shines the light onto the source of the bleeding and the flesh the bullet's path exposed. ]

The shrapnel will look like metal fragments in the entry site; it should stand out against my skin.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ You know, only moments ago, Peter would've claimed he wasn't a squeamish person.

Now, though, as he picks up the pair of tweezers with blood-stained, shaking hands, he thinks he might, in fact, be a little squeamish.

He clears his throat, visibly shaking himself and taking another steadying breath, before he does as she asks. He examines the wound, paling a little as he gets a better look at it, but he picks out the little fragments glinting under the light Gamora shines on it. He's slow about it, trying not to do more damage in trying to rush things, trying to control the nervous tremble of his hands. He drops the fragments onto the bloodied towel.

It takes him a while, but at length he rocks back. ]

I think I got it all.

[godslay]

[ Again, Gamora is as still as a statue as Peter plucks out the scraps of metal that flaked off of the bullet when it passed through her – shallow as it may have been.

Finally, with that reassurance, Gamora allows the tension to sink out of her with a shaky exhale.

A little hoarse, ]

Hand me a pressure bandage?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He nods, rummaging through the kit (ignoring the smears of blood he leaves on the packaging) and producing the pressure bandage Gamora asked for.

As he's handing it to her, ]

When are you gonna tell me why you got shot?

[godslay]

[ Gamora accepts the bandage, pressing it firmly to her side. Her wince is minor, but she intentionally keeps her gaze trained away from Peter.

How does she— even begin to explain? How can she even tell him without putting him at risk? ]

... I don't want to involve you in this.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ That incredulous look returns to his face. ]

Uh, I dunno how to tell you this, but.

[ He gestures sharply with his blood-stained hands. ]

Kinda too late for that.

[godslay]

[ ... He has a point, but the less he knows, the safer he is, right?

Maybe they've gone too far past that. ]

If I tell you— you cannot go to the police.

Not for my sake, but for yours. Do you understand?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Yeah, this sounds like it's getting worse and worse.

For his sake? What the hell does that mean?

His expression shifts from disbelief to something a little wary, but otherwise, he nods. ]

Yeah. Fine. I've never liked cops anyway.

[godslay]

[ She's silent for a prolonged moment, trying to decide how to phrase any of this. She's never told anyone about her life before – not if she intended to leave them alive.

Finally: ]

The work I do for my father has nothing to do with business acquisitions. He's not interested in acquiring competition; he wants me to... get rid of it.

[ Part of her is still trying to phrase this carefully, to maintain a hint of deniability – even if they've probably passed that point with the bullet wound. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ That.

Is practically nothing.

He huffs out a sharp breath, frustrated and confused, and he rocks back, getting to his feet. ]

What do you mean, "get rid of it"?

And how does that explain why you came back with pieces of a bullet in your side?

[godslay]

[ "Practically nothing" is a whole lot safer for Peter, but of course he's not going to accept the easiest out. Gamora frowns at the sink, not watching Peter as he rises. ]

Because I got shot trying to run preliminary surveillance on Ramirez.

[ There it is. ]

My father doesn't try to ruin his adversaries financially.

He would rather have them dead.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ ... Oh.

Peter stands in stunned silence for a few long seconds, processing this information and, apparently, failing to.

Eventually, ]

Please tell me you don't mean what I think you mean.

[godslay]

[ Gamora sighs, her jaw clenched tight as she glares at the sink. ]

My father is one of the most powerful and influential men in this country. He doesn't keep it that way with direct litigation or polite negotiations over champagne.

[ Her tone is— bitter. Almost remorseful.

But still flat: matter-of-fact. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

I mean— yeah. He's rich. Rich people never do anything fairly.

[ The sky is blue. Water is wet. Eat the rich. ]

But it sounds like— it sounds like you're saying you—

[ He struggles for a second, and out of habit, he starts to reach up to scrub at his face. He stops himself, though, before he can smear blood on himself.

He lets out another sharp breath, turning to the sink to scrub off his hands. ]

Tell me I'm misunderstanding you.