[ 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. ]
[ Gamora's surprise bleeds through her attempts at composure, and even Maw pauses to glance up at Peter from the corner of his narrowed eyes. After a second of hesitation, Gamora allows her grip on the bag to loosen, and her arm drops away to rest instead against the pillow, bowed back to give Maw room to work.
Spindling fingers peel away the bloodied bandages, and Maw hums in distaste. ]
Aren't you better than this, Gamora?
[ Again, Gamora doesn't comment, but hate edges into the periphery of her expression. She's never liked Maw, ever. He's a disgusting sycophant who takes joy from causing pain, as much as he may also be employed by Thanos to treat injuries.
The less she has to deal with him, the better.
He goes about cleaning the site again, inspecting the edges of the damaged flesh, before he's reaching for sutures from his kit. ]
You're fortunate this is superficial, but I'm going to add a few stitches below the surface, so there's no further tears from stress to the tissue.
[ Gamora's gaze darts down to the needle as Maw prepares it, before she forces her eyes closed.
She knows this is going to hurt.
Instead, she does everything she can to focus her frayed attention on Peter standing by the bed.
(Why is he still here? Why hasn't he left? He said he was going to, and Gamora doesn't blame him for it, but— He's here.
Why?)
The first slide of needle through exposed skin startles a bitten-off sound from Gamora, and she can practically feel Maw's disapproval without bothering to look at him. He doesn't comment, much to her relief, and for all that she can't stand him, he's good at what he does. Four stitches take less than a minute – an agonizing minute without anesthetic of any kind – and then he's changing his gloves and redressing the wound. ]
I will leave you a sedative so that you can get some sleep. For now, that is what your body needs most.
[ And then, much to Gamora's relief, Maw is packing his things – after leaving a small bottle of pills on the nighstand. ]
Remove the IV when the bag is drained, and dispose of it.
[ Maw turns cold eyes to Peter, his lips curling in a truly unpleasant smile. ]
I'm sure Mr. Quill can assist you with that.
[ And to Gamora: ]
Your father will expect an appraisal of your condition in the next day. Send for me if you need further treatment, but I would appreciate if you could possibly do your job correctly, instead.
[ Maw gathers up his case, fixing his jacket, before he offers them both a poilte nod and excuses himself from the bedroom.
Gamora doesn't relax until she hears the front door close, and then she slumps against the headboard. ]
[ Wisely, Peter bites his tongue through the whole thing, even though he wants to snap at the guy, Just shut up and do your fucking job, man.
It's not his place, and Gamora seems to be in hot water as it is. He doesn't need to compound it.
He averts his gaze as the guy finally sets to work, doing what Gamora ostensibly called him in to do in the first place, but when the guy finally finishes up, starts putting away his equipment, Peter finally feels himself starting to relax. Starting to, but Peter's not stupid enough to let his guard down entirely.
Which is probably for the best, because when the doctor's gaze falls on him, when the guy flashes him that dark grimace, Peter only tenses instead of recoiling.
The dude finally leaves, though, and when the door clicks shut behind him, Peter heaves out a long breath. ]
I liked him.
[ And he says it with false cheer. ]
Great bedside manner. Super chill. Seems like a great guy.
[ Peter's tone again catches Gamora off-guard, and despite the way her body is still thrumming with pain, despite the uncertainty and anxiety bounding through her, a weak smile shines through. ]
He has a way with patients.
[ The worst way, but it's technically "a" way.
Her head thumps back against the wall, and she at least feels less like she's going to black out. She's just unbearably tired, but her grip on her surroundings feels more solid. ]
[ He looks at her incredulously for a long second, eyebrows knitting together and lips parting. ]
Just 'cause that's the way it is doesn't mean it's okay to just— roll over and take it.
[ ... which, admittedly, Gamora probably knows, but it's frustrating to see how she's been forced to accept it. He grits his teeth for a second, forcing a breath out through his nose and trying to redirect his anger. ]
[ Gamora doesn't turn her eyes from Peter as she tries to make sense of— whatever this reaction means. He seems... genuinely upset by Maw, and Gamora realizes she's never had anyone actually care about how she's treated. Usually, she doesn't tolerate it, but she has no choice when it comes to her father.
Tolerate it or be forced to tolerate worse. ]
... Why?
[ She doesn't mean to sound condescending or snide, and her expression betrays her hesitancy for its true sincerity. ]
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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.
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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.
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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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Spindling fingers peel away the bloodied bandages, and Maw hums in distaste. ]
Aren't you better than this, Gamora?
[ Again, Gamora doesn't comment, but hate edges into the periphery of her expression. She's never liked Maw, ever. He's a disgusting sycophant who takes joy from causing pain, as much as he may also be employed by Thanos to treat injuries.
The less she has to deal with him, the better.
He goes about cleaning the site again, inspecting the edges of the damaged flesh, before he's reaching for sutures from his kit. ]
You're fortunate this is superficial, but I'm going to add a few stitches below the surface, so there's no further tears from stress to the tissue.
[ Gamora's gaze darts down to the needle as Maw prepares it, before she forces her eyes closed.
She knows this is going to hurt.
Instead, she does everything she can to focus her frayed attention on Peter standing by the bed.
(Why is he still here? Why hasn't he left? He said he was going to, and Gamora doesn't blame him for it, but— He's here.
Why?)
The first slide of needle through exposed skin startles a bitten-off sound from Gamora, and she can practically feel Maw's disapproval without bothering to look at him. He doesn't comment, much to her relief, and for all that she can't stand him, he's good at what he does. Four stitches take less than a minute – an agonizing minute without anesthetic of any kind – and then he's changing his gloves and redressing the wound. ]
I will leave you a sedative so that you can get some sleep. For now, that is what your body needs most.
[ And then, much to Gamora's relief, Maw is packing his things – after leaving a small bottle of pills on the nighstand. ]
Remove the IV when the bag is drained, and dispose of it.
[ Maw turns cold eyes to Peter, his lips curling in a truly unpleasant smile. ]
I'm sure Mr. Quill can assist you with that.
[ And to Gamora: ]
Your father will expect an appraisal of your condition in the next day. Send for me if you need further treatment, but I would appreciate if you could possibly do your job correctly, instead.
[ Maw gathers up his case, fixing his jacket, before he offers them both a poilte nod and excuses himself from the bedroom.
Gamora doesn't relax until she hears the front door close, and then she slumps against the headboard. ]
no subject
It's not his place, and Gamora seems to be in hot water as it is. He doesn't need to compound it.
He averts his gaze as the guy finally sets to work, doing what Gamora ostensibly called him in to do in the first place, but when the guy finally finishes up, starts putting away his equipment, Peter finally feels himself starting to relax. Starting to, but Peter's not stupid enough to let his guard down entirely.
Which is probably for the best, because when the doctor's gaze falls on him, when the guy flashes him that dark grimace, Peter only tenses instead of recoiling.
The dude finally leaves, though, and when the door clicks shut behind him, Peter heaves out a long breath. ]
I liked him.
[ And he says it with false cheer. ]
Great bedside manner. Super chill. Seems like a great guy.
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He has a way with patients.
[ The worst way, but it's technically "a" way.
Her head thumps back against the wall, and she at least feels less like she's going to black out. She's just unbearably tired, but her grip on her surroundings feels more solid. ]
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[ He glances back at Gamora, frowning a little as she slumps back against the pillows. ]
Should you take one of those painkillers now?
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Probably.
[ The sooner she sleeps, the sooner she can start tot truly recover from this.
She turns her attention back to Peter, more hesitancy in her expression. ]
... Are you still leaving?
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He doesn't meet her gaze, switching the bag of blood to his other hand. ]
Gotta wait for the bag to drain, at least.
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I can hold it, if you’d like.
[ ... holding a bag of blood isn’t the most charming pastime. ]
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[ Why does he need to remind her of this?
His voice is sharp, angry as he continues. ]
That prick of a doctor shouldn't have asked you to hold it up in the first place.
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That's how things always are.
[ Honestly, the fact that Maw hadn't protested when Peter took the bag is still surprising. ]
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Just 'cause that's the way it is doesn't mean it's okay to just— roll over and take it.
[ ... which, admittedly, Gamora probably knows, but it's frustrating to see how she's been forced to accept it. He grits his teeth for a second, forcing a breath out through his nose and trying to redirect his anger. ]
I didn't like the way he treated you. That's all.
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Tolerate it or be forced to tolerate worse. ]
... Why?
[ She doesn't mean to sound condescending or snide, and her expression betrays her hesitancy for its true sincerity. ]
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