bakerstreet | quote prompt.

[ The opening crawl: The Guardians of the Galaxy are magnets for trouble. Everywhere they go, they find it, regardless of what they’re doing. Shopping for groceries, loading up on supplies, fueling up the ship, picking their fucking noses.

Doesn’t matter. Trouble comes flying at them from across the ends of the known galaxy, tackles them down when they’re least expecting it.

It starts like this:

Gamora and Peter had resolved some time ago to try new stuff. Walking through art galleries. Watching plays. Fucking around in street carnivals and losing money to rigged games (which turns into Peter cheating at rigged games), trying whatever strange fruits and foods they had on offer. Gamora smiling when Peter balks at the taste of some strange dish, Peter grinning when a look of quiet awe crosses her face at the sight of some piece of artwork.

It’s... fun, actually. And even if the artsy stuff isn’t really Peter’s thing, it’s not so bad, as long as he’s with Gamora. (They feel suspiciously like dates, too, but Peter never says as much – not to her or to anyone else on the ship.

It’s just... fun. Probably some of the most fun Peter’s had in a long while.

And Peter tries to ignore the way that familiar thorn twists, makes itself at home.)

Here’s what happens:

Fade-in on a sun-drenched street lined with booths and stands and thick blankets, on top of which are goods like vases and toys. The two of them wander through some open-air market, assaulted by colors and sounds and smells. A tall, spindly-looking alien with skin the color of a fire engine, shouting at the two of them to buy some fruits (apparently they’re terribly refreshing on a warm day like this). A man with ghost-white skin and high cheekbones, extolling some miracle cure-all made from the gallbladder of a Pavizian snow beast. An old woman who looks as rickety as her booth, beckoning Gamora to look at her handmade jewelry and scarves.

“You ought to buy your lady friend a necklace,” the old woman says to Peter, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile. She lifts up a pendant attached to a thin cord of suede. “It would look lovely on her.”

Peter laughs uneasily, shaking his head. He says, “Okay, uh, she’s not my—”

Something slams into his back, and Peter staggers, bracing himself against the wooden post of the woman’s booth. Probably some jerkwad in a hurry, Peter figures, or some punk kid trying to pick his pocket, except—

That doesn’t explain the ringing in his ears. Or why the people around him are screaming and ducking and bolting away. Or why Gamora is shouting his name, reaching for him. Or why his legs threaten to buckle beneath him, or—

Things make a little more sense, though, when he feels along his back, and his shaking hand comes away bloody.

Another bullet takes out a chunk of the old woman’s booth, showering the two of them in wooden splinters, spurring the two of them into action. Peter, clamping a hand over the wound as best he can, bringing his blaster to bear on their assailants. Gamora, drawing her sword, flicking her wrist to extend the blade. The crowd parts, revealing some gang of seven Kree – maybe more waiting in the wings – wielding mallets and guns and blades.

Shouting something about revenge. Shouting something about Ronan the Accuser.

And Peter thinks, Well, fuck.

Between the two of them, they manage to take down two of the Kree and to wound a couple of the others, but Peter’s strength flags with the bullet burning in his side. A bad hit sends him stumbling, sends him falling, and the Kree above him grins as he lifts up his mallet. He doesn’t get a chance to splatter Peter’s brains on the pavement, though, because Gamora seems to just materialize out of thin air, running her sword through the Kree’s throat. She uses his body as a shield, and the dead Kree rocks with the impact of bullets before she kicks him off her sword.

She hauls Peter to his feet, and they run.

Here’s where they are:

Dissolve to the interior of an abandoned storefront, windows boarded up and covered with opaque tarps. Paint cans, rollers, little trays. Ladders, toolboxes. Missing ceiling tiles, wires dangling through the gaps. Floors covered in plastic and cloth sheets. Dust.

A lot of dust.

All of the dust.

They’ve holed up in here for now, hiding away from their attackers. Gamora had kicked down the door, dropped Peter off to sit against the wall to block off the door with crates. Jamming the door frame with tools.

And Peter sits, waiting, head bowed and both hands clamped awkwardly over the wound. It fucking burns. It fucking hurts, pain thrumming all along his side, echoing throughout his body. Almost like his body is saying, Wake the fuck up, nerve endings. We have work to do.

Don’t bleed to death, he tells himself, teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut. Absolutely do not.

Because dying on a date would be a fucking party foul. ]

[ gamora does not go on dates.

she is a warrior.

she is an assassin.

and neither of those things go on dates.

...not that she has ever been on a date to draw any sort of frame of reference, but she would still adamantly insist that these outings with peter are not dates.

even if she delights in the new adventures. even as she finds herself looking to peter to see his experience of something new, no matter how odd or unfamiliar, to see what all of their discoveries bring out in him, as much as it does her. (a glance in an art gallery, a brief smile when he's swept up in some odd knick-knack in a bazaar, quiet flickers of warmth as they watch a twin star sunset from the balcony of restaurant whose ingredients she couldn't name if she tried.

she likes that small smile he gets, when he thinks no one's looking.

she likes it quite a bit.)

she should have been paying more attention, she'll think later. she should have been on her guard, as she always has been, always tries to be (but there's less of that when she's out with peter, less of her constantly watching for danger and attacks.

you're allowed to take a break, you know.

she shouldn't have taken that break.)

but the chaos erupts before gamora can even process the initial shot peter takes to his side. it's almost like it happens in slow motion, like for an instant, the world stills as peter staggers forward, and she watches as he catches himself on the booth.

as that blood starts to well around the hole in his jacket.

she reaches for him before she can even think twice, his name on her lips, and then it's a matter of ducking out of the bullets' way. at least peter is still on his feet (hasn't collapsed, not yet, not yet), and with a far too steady hand, gamora draws her sword to round on the kree surrounding them.

something fierce and vicious flashes through her as their enemies advance. so often, gamora has killed without so much as a flicker of remorse — cold, calculating, efficient. emotions are a distraction, and even anger itself can blind and hinder, but here? now? faced with these vengeful kree who have so badly wounded peter?

well.

she wants to rip their spines out through their throats.

gamora moves with deadly grace, sword ripping through flesh, severing tendons, leaving the kree that have lived to scream and writhe on the market's ground. gamora doesn't pause. gamora doesn't care.

she wants to keep them off of peter.

she pivots on her heel in time to see a heavy mallet poised over peter's head, and something in her just screams. fast, so much faster than she's moved before, and she's plunged godslayer into the kree's throat to haul him around like a handpuppet. he makes an effective shield (the only useful thing this miserable sack of skin has ever done, as far as gamora is concerned), and then it's a matter of leaving him and the rest of their assailants behind to get peter out. he's too vulnerable, too exposed, and she knows he's reached the point where he can't fight.

with peter settled on the floor, gamora wastes no time barricading the small store with everything she can manage. crates, tools, boxes, anything heavy and broad to cover the door and windows. she needs to buy them time, time enough for the other guardians to find them holed up in the market, time enough to make sure that peter is safe.

time enough to keep him conscious.

alive.

gamora moves from the door, turning to see peter on the floor, still pressing a hand over his side. her jaw momentarily tightens, but then she's at his side, crouching next to him, and reaching out for his shoulder. ]

Quill.

[ firm, trying to keep that edge of worry out of her tone. ]

Quill, look at me.

Edited (MOTHERFUCKER) 2017-02-22 07:17 (UTC)

[ As she works, Peter focuses on breathing, though even that comes in ragged, uneven gasps, breaths sucked in and shoved out between his teeth. He always thought he had a pretty high tolerance for pain. He's been stabbed before – he's been stabbed a lot, not always by knives – and he's had the power of an Infinity Stone course through him.

Admittedly, on a scale of scraped knee to Infinity Stone, the gunshot wound doesn't rank anywhere near the the levels as what he felt from that stupid relic. But it fucking hurts, all the same, like fire blazing through his veins spreading through him with every beat of his heart.

Getting shot, he thinks to himself. Would not recommend. Two thumbs way down.

When Gamora crouches beside him, when she demands that he look at her while touching his shoulder, he raises his head. Reluctantly, he pries his eyes open, pupils dark and blown wide, face ashen and tight with pain. ]

I-I'm okay.

[ says Peter "Not Okay" Quill, who is currently not okay. Is, in fact, the complete opposite of okay.

His shirt and hands are stained red, blood wrapping around to crawl across the front of his shirt. (He liked this shirt. He likes all his shirts.

This one is effectively ruined.) ]

You have a very different definition of "okay," Quill.

[ even just the way he looks at her, the color (or lack thereof) in his face — though she's more preoccupied with the amount of blood he's losing. ]

Let me see it.

[ they need to get the bleeding under control. there's no telling how long it'll take the guardians to get to them (but "soon" is all gamora can hope for), and until then, she can't just let quill bleed to death.

(she can't let that happen.) ]

[ He swallows thickly at that demand, hands tightening over the wound. Some deep, animal instinct is telling him to curl up, to hide, to make himself as small as possible until the pain passes, but—

That’s stupid. That’s not going to help. And Gamora is going to help.

Or at least, that’s what Peter thinks. That’s what he hopes. Gamora’s smart, Gamora knows what the fuck she’s doing, while Peter just sort of flies by the seat of his pants. The planner and the improviser – that’s them. Peter’s been shot before, but the Eclector had been within spitting distance every time. He’d clamber onto the Milano, set the autopilot, and would hope to God he didn’t bleed out before the Ravager medic could get to him. Now, though, he’s not sure how this is going to work, stuck in a dusty, forgotten room and waiting for rescue, but—

Gamora will know what to do, he tells himself again, and he pushes away from the wall with a quiet grunt, teeth clamping down on his lower lip when the movement jars the injury. With trembling hands, he lifts up his jacket and shirt, leans forward a little to show her the wound on his back, toward his left side. It’s messy and bleeding and painful, and none of those are descriptors that Peter appreciates. ]

[ gamora watches peter pull up his jacket, his shirt, and she maintains that even expression as she gets a look at the wound.

that is not good. ]

Your breathing is unimpeded?

[ she reaches out to steady him slightly, and then tugs gently as his shirt, prepared to help him out of it, if need be. ]

Give me this.

[ he can put his jacket back on later, but for now, she needs his ruined shirt. she's purposefully forcing through the appearance of calm, keeping that levelness for the both of them, to do what is necessary — even if it may end up being unpleasant for peter. ]

[ Her first question is answered with a quick, tight nod, and he adds for clarification, ]

‘M fine.

[ Or at least, his lungs seem fine for now. His breathing is ragged, sure, but that’s more from the burn of the injury. Every inhale, every exhale feels like it comes as easily as the last.

It helps, how calm she is. Helps a whole fucking lot, and Peter feels himself relaxing a little, content to let Gamora take the reins. Sometimes he thinks Gamora should really be the one to lead them, capable as she is, smart as she is. The only thing she lacks is the patience for people, he thinks, for balancing the disparate personalities that make up their team, for knowing when to lean on other people’s strengths and shore up their weaknesses, including her own.

(She might have to learn, a distant part of him thinks, after the wound sends a burst of fire racing up his side, leaves him dizzy.)

Another tight nod at her demand, and he shifts, shrugging out of his jacket with as little movement as possible. He manages that, at least, tossing it aside. The shirt, though – that’s a problem, and he visibly hesitates, jaw clenching.

He gives a demonstrative sort of tug on the shirt's hem. ]

Help me with this?

[ gamora is a realist, most often. but in this moment, she doesn't want to think about how badly injured he is; she wants to focus on keeping him alive, on seeing him through until he can receive actual medical attention.

but for now?

she watches him get out of his jacket, and, as she suspected, the shirt won't be easy.

she steadies a hand on his shoulder, the other drawing the fabric up over his stomach, over the wound, as tentatively as she can manage while trying to jostle him as little as possible.

of course, as soon as the shirt is off, she starts to shred the damn thing, ripping it into wider strips — long enough to tie around his torso. ]

This will hurt.

[ a warning, but her tone is a little softer, not as cold and brusque as she might have been months before. ]

[ They’re careful about it, with Gamora being as gentle as possible, with Peter trying to keep movement to an absolute minimum, but Peter still swears under his breath, traps his little sounds of discomfort behind his teeth, until between the two of them they finally tug the shirt free. Gamora doesn’t seem to waste any time, and he just lets himself fall back against the wall, hands clamping over the wound again. His blood is hot under his hands, makes his side and hands slick with it.

It looks like a lot, he thinks. Is it a lot? It looks like a lot. And Peter’s education on Terran anatomy and biology would definitely leave a lot to be desired, but he’s pretty sure the red stuff should be inside him.

He swallows thickly again, watching as she tears his shirt into strips, briefly mourning its passing. It was a lost cause, he knows, but man, there’s really no coming back from that.

At her warning, Peter breathes out a dark, bitter laugh. ]

Gamora, it already hurts.

[ It can’t get much worse than this, after all. ]

I'm sure it does.

[ it's a bullet wound, after all. but she wanted to prepare him, because these makeshift bandages are going to compress the wound (they have to, if it'll stop the bleeding). she kneels in front of him with the strips of cloth, reaching out to start wrapping one around his torso, before gently prying his hand from the hole. she covers the injury quickly, then ties off the first strip — tight.

and then it's onto a second.

a third.

covering the wound and trying to keep up the pressure on his side, to try and stem the bleeding. it's their first priority, after all, and a short-term solution (they don't have the resources for anything more intense). ]

Do not pass out.

[ Oh.

Well, then.

Apparently, not for the first time in his life, Peter was wrong.

It stings like a bitch, when she dresses the wound, as she wraps the first strip around it, but when she yanks the strip taut, his vision goes white and he cries out, completely unprepared for the jolt of pain that bursts through him. ]

Motherfucker—

[ Then the second strip, and Peter falls forward against her, bloodied hands clutching at her sleeves, leaving red smears on her clothing. He should probably feel more guilty about that, and he probably will once he’s coherent enough for it, but now, it’s all he can do to bite back another scream as she pulls the strip tight around his waist again.

She adds a third one, and Peter distantly thinks he actually feels tears falling down his face, and that’s fucking lame. That’s seriously uncool, crying from pain like a five year old with a scraped elbow, but holy goddamn shit, this hurts, and she’s not letting up at all, barely giving him a chance to catch his breath.

He might actually pass out, at this rate. ]

Fuck— [ Sobbed out, fingers clenching and shaking around the fabric of her sleeves. ] Shit, Gamora, stop—

Edited 2017-02-22 23:31 (UTC)

[ terran, she has to remind herself. terran. but she knows that the sooner the bandage is in place, the sooner the bleeding stops (because he's already lost so much blood, a worrying amount, more than she thinks is safe by a long shot). it's a rare instance that causing pain twinges something inside of her, but unbidden, a sharp, barbed ache digs into her chest with every shout, every cry, and then with the second bandage, he's clinging to her, leaving his own blood smeared across her clothing, and she wants to reach out to him.

he isn't built for this, to be in this much pain, and she knows it.

(she knows it, and wishes there was something she could do to make it stop.)

but at least with the third strip, that added compression, maybe it'll be enough.

if nothing else, she doesn't reach for another piece of fabric, instead lifting her hands to peter's face (bloody hands, his own blood, she realizes). ]

It's done, Peter, breathe.

[ gentle, but firm, an attempt to be grounding, to give him something to focus on that isn't the pain she knows much be radiating through him. ]

Don't pass out.

[ she repeats it again, because she means it. he needs to stay with her, to stay conscious. ]

Stay with me.

[ He heaves in breath after breath through his mouth, fingers twisting into the material of her sleeves, and when she says, "It's done," he nearly cries with relief.

Technically, he's already crying. So, you know. Two steps ahead of the game.

Her hands are slick and warm against his cheeks, and he untangles one hand from her clothing to clutch her wrist – and on anyone else, it'd be a bruising grip. The kind to make bones creak and ache. He tries to anchor himself on the sound of her voice, the feel of her hands on his face, tries to focus on anything other than the fire lancing along his side with every breath.

It kind of works. ]

Not— [ Between desperate gulps for air. ] Not going anywhere.

[ Although passing out does sound really tempting.

Quietly, but with feeling, ]

This— this really sucks.

[ fortunately for peter, gamora can withstand whatever he needs to channel his pain, as long as it helps him. that grip doesn't even make her flinch or dissuade her from keeping her hands in place, holding onto him just as much as she lets him cling to her. ]

I know.

[ she's in complete agreement.

she finds herself reminded of her own most recent encounter with a bullet (months ago, now), and she'd at least been fortunate enough to have all the physical advantages she does — and it had still been incredibly painful.

she actually admires peter for his ability to stay conscious right now, brittle and fragile as terrans are by comparison. ]

We will have you treated properly soon.

[ with plenty of pain medication and all the sleep he wants (though, for him, it'll be in a hospital, rather than some shipside surgery like gamora had opted for). ]

[ After a few seconds, Peter doesn't quite relax, but his death-grip on her wrist and her sleeve loosens, and he sags a little. Canted forward as he already was, he falls against her, his brow resting against her shoulder.

He breathes. Because that seems like a good idea, he figures.

He answers her reassurances with a quiet grunt – more acknowledgement than agreement – and he licks his lips, gathering up his faculties, trying to find where his voice wandered off to.

(Seriously, it was just here—) ]

How... bad is it?

[ Because it certainly feels bad, but maybe Peter is a biased party. ]

[ gamora doesn't shove him away or try to stabilize him elsewhere, and instead, she wraps one arm around his shoulders, holding him steady as carefully as she can without jostling him more than necessary. her fingers wind into his hair, leaving slightly more of a mess (though that's hardly a concern for the moment), and she holds him close without a second thought; she's too preoccupied with keeping peter safe and alive that she doesn't think about how much contact this is, because for now, that doesn't matter.

she hesitates slightly when he asks about the wound, and she isn't sure if the honest answer is the right one. ]

I've seen worse.

[ which is...vague, and meant to be reassuring in her own strange way. ]

[ Earlier in the day? This would've been a scene out of his wildest dreams. Only without the blood. Without any of the blood. Peter may be okay with some kinky stuff, but this is not one of them.

(He has the distant, slightly hysterical thought that this? Was not how he imagined Gamora stripping him, either.)

As it is now, it's comforting, the warmth of her arms around him, the feeling of her fingers in his hair. He's already a mess as it is, and he'd rather have this than have Gamora become weirdly fastidious about it all.

(He's pretty sure they've both been drenched in worse, anyway, on those days when being a "Guardian of the Galaxy" was briefly synonymous with "Galactic Exterminator.")

He lets out a breath – probably something meant to be a laugh. ]

It doesn't count if you've— if you've seen worse on you.

[ Considering the gigantic differences between them, not the least of which is that Gamora has accelerated healing on her side. ]

Edited 2017-02-23 04:54 (UTC)

Why not? I have never seen another injured Terran, so I say it counts.

[ mostly, she keeps talking because she wants him to stay focused and conscious there with her in the little store. she doesn't want him drifting into the heaviness she knows come with too much blood loss, doesn't want him going into shock, either.

she needs to keep him stable, for as long as she can. ]

I would also like it stated that this is not how I anticipated we would spend our day.

[ it had started out so nicely, too. the market was enjoyable, the planet's weather was pleasant, and gamora had been genuinely having...a good time with peter.

as she so often had on their excursions lately.

(he needs to stick around for plenty more of those.) ]

[ He breathes out another laugh, his shoulder shifting a little in a half-hearted shrug. ]

Yeah. S-sorry.

[ Not for what happened, because for once, this hadn't been Peter's fault. And that was rare, for a fuck-up this bad to not fall on his shoulders. He is sorry for it happening at all, though, because that was unequivocal bullshit.

It was really going well today, he thought. Sunshine and color and sound, something new to look at every few steps. It was fun, as most of these outings are – even when the stuff they ended up doing wasn't fun.

What really mattered to him, anyway, was doing it all with Gamora. ]

Shoulda— [ He hisses in a breath, the hand wrapped around her wrist dropping and going to his side. ] Should've— been faster, I guess.

[ it does little to comfort gamora when peter's hand falls away, but she doesn't move her fingers from his hair or loosen her grip.

instead, she just shakes her head as she brushes curls back from his face (though she doesn't leave quite as much blood behind as it begins to dry). ]

You had no means of anticipating that shot.

[ she should have been more alert. she should have paid more attention, but she'd been so distracted, so wrapped up in taking a moment to enjoy the day without constantly being ready for an attack.

she'd relaxed, and peter had gotten hurt. ]

My guard was down, and it shouldn't have been.

What?

[ And Peter pulls back just enough to frown at her. ]

Gamora— neither of us saw this coming. Doubt either of us would have, anyway. This— this wasn't— isn't— your fault.

[ And, sure, maybe Gamora might've spotted that asshole taking the shot, but Peter remembers too well what happened last time something like this had happened, how she had taken the bullet for him. It's better that it ended up this way, he thinks, because Gamora is far more capable at handling the sort of odds they had faced back there. Two against seven.

Well, one and a half against seven, he guesses, considering how helpful he had been.

He takes a breath and tries to dredge up a smile – which he does, but it's a shaky, tenuous thing. ]

I meant— I meant I shoulda been faster— 'cause I wanted to buy you that necklace.

[ He lets his forehead fall back against her shoulder, huffing out a rueful sort of laugh. ]

Probably gone now, huh?

Edited 2017-02-23 19:54 (UTC)

[ there are a multitude of factors that gamora has considered in the wake of the fight, though the possible outcomes still felt wildly unpredictable. she had handled the kree well, because she often juggled multiple enemies with more grace than some of the others, but she still thinks that her ability to heal would have been better served here.

he's too vulnerable. too liable to be brought down by something small as this (though that isn't a thought she cares to entertain).

she doesn't argue with him as he pulls away to look at her, but it's that smile that catches that flicker of warmth in her chest, and what he says—

she's honestly caught by surprise. ]

You were going to—

[ but then she just shakes her head, something that might even share parentage with a laugh echoing peter's as she winds her fingers back into his hair, turning her face to let her nose rest against his temple. ]

Sometimes you are a foolish man, Peter Quill.

[ she doesn't say it with any measure of unkindness, with anything harsh or biting like the many other times she's called him a fool. it's quiet, but there's even warmth in her tone. ]

[ He echoes the laugh again, turning slightly into the contact – and he should probably be more startled by all of this, by the warmth of her arms around him, the brush of her breath across his cheek.

For now, though, it's comforting, and only that. And considering how fucking much getting shot hurts, he'll take what he can get. ]

Only sometimes? Better than usual.

[ Considering most of the time, she's throwing the word at him like it might actually be the most insulting thing in the universe.

He takes a shuddering breath, screws his eyes shut. They're safe for now, at least for a little while, but— ]

Those assholes are gonna be lookin' for us.

[ Not their assholes, that is. Those assholes. The one that put a bullet in him and tried to murder them on a busy street. ]

[ another time, another place, and gamora would be far more uncertain about how close they are, about this level of contact — but she also knows that peter is, by nature, a tactile individual. that it's comforting to him. and in this moment, as he sits in so much pain and genuine danger, she doesn't even balk at the opportunity to provide that comfort (because somewhere, in a space she can't quite parse or acknowledge, it comforts her to be this close to him). ]

I know.

[ she's kept her attention somewhat divided for that very reason: listening for footfalls, glancing towards any of their exposed spaces in the shop. she's kept on her guard, even as she ensures peter's own safety. ]

I will handle them, should they find us here.

[ she hopes they'll somehow pass by, that they'll hold out until the others can pick them up, but if the kree get to the storefront before then...

well, gamora has some unfinished business with them.

(namely, the fact that they still possess all of their essential organs. she'd like to fix that.) ]

[ She'll probably feel his nod more than see it. ]

Okay.

[ He should protest more, though. He should insist that he can help, or maybe he should tell Gamora to get out for her own safety, so she doesn't have to play bodyguard for him. He should tell her to slip out while she still can, to go find the rest of the guys and drag them back here to haul his sorry ass to someone who can sew him up.

And maybe he will, if this drags out too much longer, but for the moment, the idea of being left alone like this, unable to stand or walk without assistance, his side throbbing with a fire pulsing beneath his skin—

Well. It leaves him a little afraid.

But that's a decision for later. That's a decision for Future Peter, the Peter of ten, fifteen minutes from now. Right now, Gamora's in charge, because Gamora is the one who keeps her calm when things go to shit; Peter's the one to throw together haphazard plans held together by paperclips and prayers, and they don't need that yet. Hopefully not at all.

A small shudder runs down his spine and he curls up a little toward her. ]

Cold in here.

[ And maybe he's just saying that because of the loss of his shirt, but sweat collects on his brow, his neck, and it's just as warm inside the forgotten little store as it had been on the street. ]

i have no room to judge. here is a novel

swoons

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