[ He brings her back to the bed, laying her down as gently as he can. He nods a little, casting around to find her phone. Apparently it was left charging on the nightstand – probably a smart move to avoid any sort of tracking or to lower the risk of leaving something damning behind.
(Personally, Peter feels completely naked without his phone.)
He hands her the phone, letting her unlock it as he hurries to the mini fridge, retrieving a bottle of water. Just so he feels like he's doing something.
He returns to the bed, unscrewing the cap and holding the open bottle out for her. ]
[ A normal doctor is just not an option, at this point – or ever, if Gamora is realistic.
But despite how hazy she feels, despite how her head spins, she manages to keep herself steady enough to use her phone, sending out little more than a location pin to her father's lackey. Once done, she lets herself slump against the pillows with a shaky sigh – but then Peter is coming back with a bottle of water. She opens her eyes blearily, blinking at him with open confusion as she struggles to push herself up. ]
... Why are you still here?
[ Her voice is quiet, almost small as she hesitates in taking the bottle. ]
You seriously expect me to leave when you're like this?
[ Admittedly, he sounds frustrated, but that's mostly at himself.
He gathers himself after a second, forcing himself to inhale and exhale slowly, deliberately. He hovers for another second or two, uncertain, arms crossed a little self-consciously over his chest. ]
[ Rather than make him feel better, that answer just makes him feel all the more uncertain.
He shoves it aside after a second, gaze flitting first to his belongings left carelessly on his side of the bed—
His jaw clenches briefly as he silently corrects himself. It's not "his side of the bed." It's the side of the bed he's been sleeping on, but it's not "his."
He should scoop up his things and make his exit, he knows, but he tells himself he can wait for this doctor to arrive. Once Gamora is tended to, then he won't feel guilty about leaving.
Hesitantly, he sits at the foot of the bed, not quite looking at her. ]
[ He still can't quite bring himself to look at her, mostly because he doesn't trust himself to stay calm.
He's so fucking angry, still – at Gamora for lying to him, yes, but also at himself for being so fucking gullible. He feels like such an idiot for letting himself be blinded by the promise of money. He's had some decent months, here and there, but he's been scraping the bottom of the barrel long enough and often enough that having this abrupt windfall had felt like a stroke of luck.
And it still could be. All he has to do is look the other way and keep his fucking mouth shut, except—
Listen. Peter may be an asshole. He may have done some shitty things in his life, but he's not 100% a dick. He can't just sit idly by while Gamora actually murders someone. Even if he won't witness it, like Gamora intended, even if he probably won't even realize it's happened until long after the fact, he'll still know. ]
Is this guy in on it, too?
[ The words are cast a little gruffly. ]
Maybe not— this. [ And he accompanies it with a vague gesture. ] But does he know what you do?
[ Again, Gamora falls quiet. She shifts on the bed, grimacing as she tries to find a comfortable position, but— everything hurts. There's really no avoiding that.
Eventually, she manages to find the words.
(She's never told anyone. She's never shared this.) ]
Since I was six. Thanos murdered my parents because my... my dad intended to expose fraud in the company he worked for – that happened to be owned by Thanos.
Thanos adopted me because he knew I was a child no one would miss, and because he—
[ Gamora stops again, wincing, the tension in her whole body is making her head swim again. ]
[ He glances up again, this time studying her a little more closely.
She's exhausted – a mix from crashing adrenaline and blood loss, probably – and he frowns. He should let her rest until this doctor guy arrives, but a small, selfish part of him is afraid of sitting alone with all of— this. All this new, terrifying information. ]
[ Reluctant but conceding, Gamora plucks up the water again, opening her eyes for a few smaller sips. Once she deems it enough, she leaves the bottle on the nightstand again, shifting to try and lie down comfortably.
Her eyes close, her breathing slightly more ragged, and when she speaks again, it's quiet and unsteady. ]
—I'm sorry.
[ And god, Gamora doesn't apologize, but she's hazy with blood loss and her head is swimming, and it's enough to banish her self-conscious pride. ]
[ He stiffens at that, a hand balling into a fist.
How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? You should be, a petty part of him wants to say, but that's hardly helpful. This situation is fucked up in a million different ways, and while Peter hates so much of this, he gets why she kept it from him.
A bigger person might accept the apology right here and now, but he's still pissed, at her and at himself. And he's never had a good track record with being mature about anything.
Peter's quiet for probably five seconds too long before he finally spurs himself to speak. ]
[ Gamora is fading quickly enough that she doesn't notice how long it takes Peter to respond. She only gives a tired, vague hum, before she's passing out on the pillows.
At least she's still breathing.
As predicted, barely twenty minutes pass from the time of Gamora's text, and then a short, sharp knock sounds on the bungalow door. ]
[ He risks another glance at her as she settles, as she seems to drift off.
(A familiar, ugly panic tightens his throat, makes him feel like he's choking, before he forces it away.
She'll be okay, he tries to tell himself. She'll be fine.)
Peter and waiting are old acquaintances – not that he enjoys the reunion in the slightest, but he remembers how to deal with it. Admittedly, he doesn't go about it in the healthiest way, but he sits and waits, still and silent. He goes a little numb, mind filling with static.
His head jerks up at the sharp knock on the door, and he frowns, mistrustful and uncertain. It's been enough time, though, that he can probably safely assume that it's the doctor Gamora called. He gets to his feet, pausing long enough to shake Gamora's shoulder to rouse her a little. ]
I think he's here.
[ And after that, he heads to the door. He opens it a sliver, first, just to examine the dude and to ensure there isn't a squad of police waiting behind him. Definitely not hotel staff, judging by the dress, and probably not a cop, judging by the lack of visible weaponry.
But god, the guy looks creepy.
Peter opens the door a little more fully, after that, stepping aside to let the guy in. ]
[ Gamora sleeps surprisingly heavily for the brief period that she's actually unconscious. She isn't even aware that Peter is still present, and she doesn't stir with the knock at the door. Peter's touch, however, finally makes her open her eyes.
As Peter leaves the room, she struggles to sit upright.
The door opens to reveal a tall, slim man with wispy white hair, receding across his skull. His skin is greying and pale, almost sickly, and his eyes are milky, as cold and unsettling as the rest of him. He is not the sort of man to be the face of Thanos's work, as he gives the impression of some sort of invertebrate living in a cave – slithering away from the sun and scavenging in the dark.
He tilts his chin as he absorbs Peter's appearance, his eyes narrowing. ]
Yes, thank you.
[ He steps into the bungalow, turning to assess Peter. ]
[ Paranoia means Peter takes one last look around as the guy steps in – another cursory check for cops or anything else out of place, maybe – before he shuts the door behind him, locking it.
He tenses at the question, wary despite himself. The guy looks slimy as hell – literally and figuratively – but that's not what makes Peter hesitate.
Mostly, he's uncertain how to introduce himself. Gamora had been introducing him as her partner, back at the gallery opening, but Peter's reasonably sure that isn't going to fly, here. ]
I'm Gamora's friend.
[ That feels safe enough. True enough, besides.
(... is it true? Or is Gamora just using him as a tool? A resource?) ]
[ The mention of the word "friend" makes Maw's thin brows rise up his large forehead. ]
I see.
[ Though he gives little else away.
He turns from Peter, striding down the hall with a case in hand, towards the bedroom. He finds Gamora leaning against the headboard, looking drawn and dirty and bruised. ]
My, my, what a mess we have here.
[ Maw clicks his tongue as he brings the case with him to Gamora's bedside. He sets it on the mattress, unlocking it and opening it wide to sort through its contents. ]
Your father is most displeased with the rumblings he's heard already, Gamora.
[ Gamora barely casts Maw a glare, her teeth clenched tight to keep something scathing at bay. ]
You may soon see more of your sister for the remainder of your time in LA, depending on the severity of whatever you've done to yourself.
[ Like she should have avoided all of this, like she should have known better.
(She should have. She'd been distracted.)
Maw draws out gloves, tools, and a bag of blood – Gamora's, of course. The first order of business is clearly seeing to the blood she's already lost, and a transfusion is the most crucial treatment; Maw is quick and almost mechanical in how efficiently he prepares, how he swabs her inner arm with disinfectant, how he non-too-gently finds a vein and inserts a butterfly needle. Gamora only inhales once, sharp and short, but she tries to keep her demeanor impassive (even though she's exhausted, even though the illogical part of her just wants to curl around Peter and sleep).
Maw hands the bag of blood to Gamora once it's attached to her IV. ]
Hold that up.
[ Of course he hadn't brought a portable stand with him.
He ensures she takes it in the hand of her wounded side, encouraging her to lift the bag high, while ignoring the strain in her body and the slight tremor that comes with the tension pulling at the bandaged site. But Gamora knows he expects her to stay perfectly in place while he works, no matter how much her body may protest.
She's trying not to focus on the pain, and her hazy gaze sweeps the bedroom, searching for Peter. ]
[ Peter blinks after the guy practically dismisses him, biting back the instinct to ask, "So do I get your name, or...?"
Bigger fish to fry, of course.
He trails after the doctor as he steps into the bedroom, hovering in the doorway. (And he remembers the smell of antiseptic, the sharp tang of cleaning products. Muffled pages over the PA system. The low hum of conversation and machinery. The buzzing of fluorescent lights—
"You've gotta stay here. Please.")
He wonders if he should keep out of the way, head into the living room to wear a rut in the floor from pacing. (He should leave, he should leave, he should leave—) Silently, he listens to Maw, listens to that clipped, disinterested voice, and he thinks of villains in James Bond films, all cultured and evil.
To the guy's credit, though, he seems to know what he's doing, and he goes about it quickly and efficiently. When the bag of blood comes out, Peter is starting to lean heavily toward, Get out of the way, and he rocks back a little, away from the door frame.
But then Gamora's gaze finds his, and while she's mostly a blank slate, right now, he knows that position can't possibly be easy or comfortable for her.
Peter falters for only a second before he pushes himself forward, moving to Gamora's injured side. He takes hold of the edge of the bag, waiting for her to release it. ]
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(Personally, Peter feels completely naked without his phone.)
He hands her the phone, letting her unlock it as he hurries to the mini fridge, retrieving a bottle of water. Just so he feels like he's doing something.
He returns to the bed, unscrewing the cap and holding the open bottle out for her. ]
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But despite how hazy she feels, despite how her head spins, she manages to keep herself steady enough to use her phone, sending out little more than a location pin to her father's lackey. Once done, she lets herself slump against the pillows with a shaky sigh – but then Peter is coming back with a bottle of water. She opens her eyes blearily, blinking at him with open confusion as she struggles to push herself up. ]
... Why are you still here?
[ Her voice is quiet, almost small as she hesitates in taking the bottle. ]
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[ Admittedly, he sounds frustrated, but that's mostly at himself.
He gathers himself after a second, forcing himself to inhale and exhale slowly, deliberately. He hovers for another second or two, uncertain, arms crossed a little self-consciously over his chest. ]
If you want me out now, I'll leave.
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She almost chokes on the water when she shakes her head. ]
I don’t.
[ She wipes her chin over the back of her (bloody) hand. ]
I don’t— [ A grimace as she presses her palm against her spinning head. ]
I don’t want you to go.
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He shoves it aside after a second, gaze flitting first to his belongings left carelessly on his side of the bed—
His jaw clenches briefly as he silently corrects himself. It's not "his side of the bed." It's the side of the bed he's been sleeping on, but it's not "his."
He should scoop up his things and make his exit, he knows, but he tells himself he can wait for this doctor to arrive. Once Gamora is tended to, then he won't feel guilty about leaving.
Hesitantly, he sits at the foot of the bed, not quite looking at her. ]
When's your doctor friend gonna get here?
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20 minutes.
[ She doesn't know where Maw is coming from, but he's at least close enough.
She watches Peter uncertainly as she returns to taking small sips from her water, not sure what to make of him staying still. ]
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He's so fucking angry, still – at Gamora for lying to him, yes, but also at himself for being so fucking gullible. He feels like such an idiot for letting himself be blinded by the promise of money. He's had some decent months, here and there, but he's been scraping the bottom of the barrel long enough and often enough that having this abrupt windfall had felt like a stroke of luck.
And it still could be. All he has to do is look the other way and keep his fucking mouth shut, except—
Listen. Peter may be an asshole. He may have done some shitty things in his life, but he's not 100% a dick. He can't just sit idly by while Gamora actually murders someone. Even if he won't witness it, like Gamora intended, even if he probably won't even realize it's happened until long after the fact, he'll still know. ]
Is this guy in on it, too?
[ The words are cast a little gruffly. ]
Maybe not— this. [ And he accompanies it with a vague gesture. ] But does he know what you do?
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But— ]
Yes. He works for my father.
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Right. Family doctor.
[ Though he says it a little sarcastically – a small outlet for the frustration that's built up at the situation.
(Just leave,, a voice in his head keeps telling him. Just fucking leave. Take the money and run.
But his conscience, the little part of him that he could never quite stamp out, tells him that can't just leave Gamora alone while she's hurt.) ]
And you've done this your whole life?
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Eventually, she manages to find the words.
(She's never told anyone. She's never shared this.) ]
Since I was six. Thanos murdered my parents because my... my dad intended to expose fraud in the company he worked for – that happened to be owned by Thanos.
Thanos adopted me because he knew I was a child no one would miss, and because he—
[ Gamora stops again, wincing, the tension in her whole body is making her head swim again. ]
Because I had seen what he was capable of.
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His gaze flits over to her – quick and all too uncertain – before he fixes his gaze on the space in front of him again. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He casts it quietly, a little roughly, if only because he's not sure what to say.
(What the hell do you say when someone tells you their family was murdered by their apparently adoptive father?
He falls silent again, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then, slowly, ]
Why can't you come forward with all this? Go to the cops and go into witness protection or something?
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I don't trust the police. As much as I'm a part of this, I don't know how I could get out untouched.
I keep... [ She trails off, almost sleepily. ] I keep... looking for a way out. At the right time.
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She's exhausted – a mix from crashing adrenaline and blood loss, probably – and he frowns. He should let her rest until this doctor guy arrives, but a small, selfish part of him is afraid of sitting alone with all of— this. All this new, terrifying information. ]
What've you thought of so far?
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I've been... putting money aside that I didn't think my father would miss. Enough that I can disappear.
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But he nods again, at least a little sympathetic. ]
And have you got enough yet?
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Almost.
[ Her head falls back with a small, shaky sigh. ]
As soon as I can get out, I will.
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Drink a little more water before you rest.
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Her eyes close, her breathing slightly more ragged, and when she speaks again, it's quiet and unsteady. ]
—I'm sorry.
[ And god, Gamora doesn't apologize, but she's hazy with blood loss and her head is swimming, and it's enough to banish her self-conscious pride. ]
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How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? You should be, a petty part of him wants to say, but that's hardly helpful. This situation is fucked up in a million different ways, and while Peter hates so much of this, he gets why she kept it from him.
A bigger person might accept the apology right here and now, but he's still pissed, at her and at himself. And he's never had a good track record with being mature about anything.
Peter's quiet for probably five seconds too long before he finally spurs himself to speak. ]
Just get some rest.
I'll let you know when that doctor is here.
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At least she's still breathing.
As predicted, barely twenty minutes pass from the time of Gamora's text, and then a short, sharp knock sounds on the bungalow door. ]
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(A familiar, ugly panic tightens his throat, makes him feel like he's choking, before he forces it away.
She'll be okay, he tries to tell himself. She'll be fine.)
Peter and waiting are old acquaintances – not that he enjoys the reunion in the slightest, but he remembers how to deal with it. Admittedly, he doesn't go about it in the healthiest way, but he sits and waits, still and silent. He goes a little numb, mind filling with static.
His head jerks up at the sharp knock on the door, and he frowns, mistrustful and uncertain. It's been enough time, though, that he can probably safely assume that it's the doctor Gamora called. He gets to his feet, pausing long enough to shake Gamora's shoulder to rouse her a little. ]
I think he's here.
[ And after that, he heads to the door. He opens it a sliver, first, just to examine the dude and to ensure there isn't a squad of police waiting behind him. Definitely not hotel staff, judging by the dress, and probably not a cop, judging by the lack of visible weaponry.
But god, the guy looks creepy.
Peter opens the door a little more fully, after that, stepping aside to let the guy in. ]
She's in the bedroom.
no subject
As Peter leaves the room, she struggles to sit upright.
The door opens to reveal a tall, slim man with wispy white hair, receding across his skull. His skin is greying and pale, almost sickly, and his eyes are milky, as cold and unsettling as the rest of him. He is not the sort of man to be the face of Thanos's work, as he gives the impression of some sort of invertebrate living in a cave – slithering away from the sun and scavenging in the dark.
He tilts his chin as he absorbs Peter's appearance, his eyes narrowing. ]
Yes, thank you.
[ He steps into the bungalow, turning to assess Peter. ]
And you are...?
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He tenses at the question, wary despite himself. The guy looks slimy as hell – literally and figuratively – but that's not what makes Peter hesitate.
Mostly, he's uncertain how to introduce himself. Gamora had been introducing him as her partner, back at the gallery opening, but Peter's reasonably sure that isn't going to fly, here. ]
I'm Gamora's friend.
[ That feels safe enough. True enough, besides.
(... is it true? Or is Gamora just using him as a tool? A resource?) ]
Peter Quill.
no subject
I see.
[ Though he gives little else away.
He turns from Peter, striding down the hall with a case in hand, towards the bedroom. He finds Gamora leaning against the headboard, looking drawn and dirty and bruised. ]
My, my, what a mess we have here.
[ Maw clicks his tongue as he brings the case with him to Gamora's bedside. He sets it on the mattress, unlocking it and opening it wide to sort through its contents. ]
Your father is most displeased with the rumblings he's heard already, Gamora.
[ Gamora barely casts Maw a glare, her teeth clenched tight to keep something scathing at bay. ]
You may soon see more of your sister for the remainder of your time in LA, depending on the severity of whatever you've done to yourself.
[ Like she should have avoided all of this, like she should have known better.
(She should have. She'd been distracted.)
Maw draws out gloves, tools, and a bag of blood – Gamora's, of course. The first order of business is clearly seeing to the blood she's already lost, and a transfusion is the most crucial treatment; Maw is quick and almost mechanical in how efficiently he prepares, how he swabs her inner arm with disinfectant, how he non-too-gently finds a vein and inserts a butterfly needle. Gamora only inhales once, sharp and short, but she tries to keep her demeanor impassive (even though she's exhausted, even though the illogical part of her just wants to curl around Peter and sleep).
Maw hands the bag of blood to Gamora once it's attached to her IV. ]
Hold that up.
[ Of course he hadn't brought a portable stand with him.
He ensures she takes it in the hand of her wounded side, encouraging her to lift the bag high, while ignoring the strain in her body and the slight tremor that comes with the tension pulling at the bandaged site. But Gamora knows he expects her to stay perfectly in place while he works, no matter how much her body may protest.
She's trying not to focus on the pain, and her hazy gaze sweeps the bedroom, searching for Peter. ]
no subject
Bigger fish to fry, of course.
He trails after the doctor as he steps into the bedroom, hovering in the doorway. (And he remembers the smell of antiseptic, the sharp tang of cleaning products. Muffled pages over the PA system. The low hum of conversation and machinery. The buzzing of fluorescent lights—
"You've gotta stay here. Please.")
He wonders if he should keep out of the way, head into the living room to wear a rut in the floor from pacing. (He should leave, he should leave, he should leave—) Silently, he listens to Maw, listens to that clipped, disinterested voice, and he thinks of villains in James Bond films, all cultured and evil.
To the guy's credit, though, he seems to know what he's doing, and he goes about it quickly and efficiently. When the bag of blood comes out, Peter is starting to lean heavily toward, Get out of the way, and he rocks back a little, away from the door frame.
But then Gamora's gaze finds his, and while she's mostly a blank slate, right now, he knows that position can't possibly be easy or comfortable for her.
Peter falters for only a second before he pushes himself forward, moving to Gamora's injured side. He takes hold of the edge of the bag, waiting for her to release it. ]
I can take care of this.
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