[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ "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.
[ 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.
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. ]
[ She watches him as he washes his hands, and her mind fills with the swirls of pink she can visualize running down the drain.
Washing away blood is too familiar by now. ]
He adopted me when I was young to mold me into a weapon. When my parents—
[ But this time, she stops herself (because her throat closes up when she tries to verbalize this moment of her history, because she doesn't need to tell him, because that's too much information, because—).
She shakes her head, starting again. ]
You are not misunderstanding. And that's why you can't tell anyone.
[ He scrubs the blood away, probably a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. His hands shake a little, thanks to an ugly coil of panic and confusion and slow-fading adrenaline, and when he's done, he dries off his hands with the closest towel. ]
So. Okay.
[ He catches her gaze in the reflection in the mirror before quickly looking back down at the sink, at the little pink droplets that have collected in the basin. ]
You kill people. For your dad.
[ His voice is dull, but there's an unmistakable tremor there, too. ]
And you hired me so you wouldn't look suspicious. So you could kill people. For your dad.
A small part of him was still holding out hope that she'd bark out a laugh, as wildly out of character as that may be for Gamora, and tell him how ridiculous he sounds, that no, actually, she doesn't kill anyone, and how could he possibly think that?
He wrings the towel between his hands, still facing the mirror without catching Gamora's gaze. ]
So, all these parties and shit you have to go to— is just so you can get in close to this Ramirez guy.
[ Her answer doesn't come immediately, if only because—
She hadn't thought of it that way.
She hired Peter to make this job easier, but she hadn't equated his part in it with the end goal. She would never want to share the blood on her hands. ]
[ He turns, then, the towel still between his hands – a small outlet for the panic threatening to boil over in his gut. ]
You hired me so you wouldn't look attract attention. You wanted me there so you could get close to his wife without her immediately giving you the cold shoulder.
If this guy ends up dead, that'll be because I'm helping you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Wet one of the hand towels; we need better visibility first.
Clean the blood until you can see the edges of the wound.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
As he's handing it to her, ]
When are you gonna tell me why you got shot?
no subject
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.
no subject
Uh, I dunno how to tell you this, but.
[ He gestures sharply with his blood-stained hands. ]
Kinda too late for that.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
Washing away blood is too familiar by now. ]
He adopted me when I was young to mold me into a weapon. When my parents—
[ But this time, she stops herself (because her throat closes up when she tries to verbalize this moment of her history, because she doesn't need to tell him, because that's too much information, because—).
She shakes her head, starting again. ]
You are not misunderstanding. And that's why you can't tell anyone.
no subject
So. Okay.
[ He catches her gaze in the reflection in the mirror before quickly looking back down at the sink, at the little pink droplets that have collected in the basin. ]
You kill people. For your dad.
[ His voice is dull, but there's an unmistakable tremor there, too. ]
And you hired me so you wouldn't look suspicious. So you could kill people. For your dad.
no subject
Yes. That's correct.
[ She reasons that even if he runs, even if he tries to expose her, no one will believe him – not before Thanos ensures he "disappears."
(Why does the idea of that make her feel sick to her stomach?) ]
no subject
Not great.
A small part of him was still holding out hope that she'd bark out a laugh, as wildly out of character as that may be for Gamora, and tell him how ridiculous he sounds, that no, actually, she doesn't kill anyone, and how could he possibly think that?
He wrings the towel between his hands, still facing the mirror without catching Gamora's gaze. ]
So, all these parties and shit you have to go to— is just so you can get in close to this Ramirez guy.
I'm here to help you kill someone.
no subject
She hadn't thought of it that way.
She hired Peter to make this job easier, but she hadn't equated his part in it with the end goal. She would never want to share the blood on her hands. ]
... You aren't a part of that.
no subject
[ He turns, then, the towel still between his hands – a small outlet for the panic threatening to boil over in his gut. ]
You hired me so you wouldn't look attract attention. You wanted me there so you could get close to his wife without her immediately giving you the cold shoulder.
If this guy ends up dead, that'll be because I'm helping you.
no subject
I hired you to make this easier, not because I needed you to be responsible for this.
Anything that happens to Ramirez isn't your fault.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)