bakerstreet | quote prompt.

[ He nods a little against her, though it's slow, hesitant, and he echoes back, ]

... Right.

[ But that uncertainty returns to his voice, and his gaze flits down to his lap.

He's hurting. He's cold. He's tired. And as much faith as he usually has in his team (though he kind of figures that faith isn't returned much, most days), a part of him kind of thinks— maybe today's it. Maybe today's the day his luck finally runs out.

Which kind of sucks, if he's honest. Kind of really sucks, to survive a dogfight in the skies of Xandar, to survive the crashing of the Dark Aster, to survive all the shit Ronan the Accuser threw at them, to survive the fucking Infinity Stone and live on to have stupid little adventures with his new family—

And to get taken down in the middle of the day. Shot in the back, with hardly any ceremony.

It sucks. ]

Was gonna take you— this fair. Couple weeks away, on Nerian-6. Harvest festival. They— they have these— these big dances. Loud, fast.

[ He huffs out a bitter laugh, shutting his eyes. ]

Wanted to ask you— to dance with me again—

[ she can hear it in his voice — that uncertainty, that wavering of faith. this looks bleak, and she knows it, and for all her general realism, she still reaches for that belief that the other guardians are still coming. they'll be here in time, because they have to be.

(because peter is too important for him to die in her arms, covered in his own blood.)

but she listens as he speaks again, and his words only spark that curl of warmth in her chest, make it twist a little tighter, even if she can't quite grasp why.

they also bring back that small, impossibly genuine smile. ]

The fast dancing is more your strength than mine.

[ but that isn't in any way a "no" — or some token denial that she "doesn't dance." she wants to go, she wants to see that fair with him.

she wants to dance with him again. ]

[ The corner of his mouth twitches a little. ]

Just need practice.

[ Because Gamora knows how to move, has control over herself in ways that Peter can hardly imagine, in ways that'd make a Jedi master weep for joy. She just uses it in the only ways she knows how – fighting, killing.

Resourceful bastard as he is, Peter's always been of the mind that old skills can be easily put to new uses – and in this case, that just means dancing.

His hand at her shirt loosens a little, and when he speaks again, it's a bit more faintly. ]

Could always ask for... somethin' slow...

Then I'll dance with you to something slow.

[ but she feels his grip weakening, the fading of his voice, and she pulls back, just a touch, lifting her hands to peter's face to pull his attention back to her, to keep him there. ]

But I will not dance with you if you don't look here.

[ she brushes back his hair, a frown settling into her expression. ]

Here, Peter.

[ He makes a displeased noise when she pulls away, when she brackets his face with her hands, but stubbornly, he screws his eyes shut, keeps his head lowered. ]

'M tired, Gamora.

[ A little whinier than he usually goes for, but he doesn't much care. ]

I know.

[ she brushes a thumb over his cheek. ]

But I need you to look at me. You must stay awake.

[ and with another tug, ]

Peter.

[ He makes another dismayed sort of noise at the back of his throat, but after a few seconds, he pries his eyes open. His gaze wanders a little before he focuses on her, and he grimaces. ]

Okay, okay. I'm up.

Good. Stay that way.

[ she offers him a serious, level look, not necessarily admonishing (yet) as she cards her fingers through his hair with one hand, the other still cupping his jaw. ]

Keep your eyes open until the others arrive.

[ she knows it's asking for a great deal at this point, that she expects more than what his body wants from him, but as long as he's awake, she knows he's alive. ]

You will have plenty of time for sleep later.

[ He makes a quiet noise – acknowledgment, rather than agreement – and he lowers his head again, chin dipping down toward his chest. ]

Dunno— that I can wait that long.

[ gamora's jaw tightens, that knot in her chest asserting itself all over again in something uncomfortable and...maybe a little anxious?

she shakes her head, tugs at his chin again, tries to encourage him to look up. ]

You have to. It's not an option otherwise.

Stay with me.

[ and with something that almost never passes gamora's lips, ]

Please.

Sorry.

[ Even with her hand on his chin, his gaze wanders without focus, his eyes flutter shut, and his head continues to tilt downward in her grip. ]

Listen. Gamora, I— You—

[ This, barely voiced, as his eyes start to flutter shut, even as he tries gamely to keep them open, as he winces at himself, as a distant sense of self-preservation screams at him to stay awake. If not for himself, then for her, for the team, for the promise of tomorrow. ]

I wish— wish I could—

[ But sleep, rest, nothingness, are far too tempting. The siren call of unconsciousness, of no pain proves too strong to ignore. His head spins. Blackness creeps into the edges of his vision. ]

Mom's— my— my tapes... I know you— I want you...

[ All of this, just above a whisper, but after a few seconds, words escape him. His eyes shut entirely, lids too heavy to keep open. Coherency drifts away after that, and the next two words are hard won against the heaviness that finally drags him down. ]

Keep... them...

[ His hand drops from her shirtfront into his lap, and he falls silent entirely, slumping against her. ]

[ there's a finality in peter's words that weighs too heavily on gamora as he stumbles through, tries to get it all out, so soft and weak, and—

no.

the mention of his mother's tapes, the fact that he's trying to pass them onto her...

absolutely not.

they belong to him, always will, and there's no point in this morbid willing away of his possessions, because he's going to be fine; he has to be fine. she opens her mouth to tell him so, to inform him once again that he's being a fool, but he's suddenly nothing but deadweight in her arms, silent and still. ]

Peter. Peter.

[ an attempt to shake him awake does her no good, and she pushes him back, reaching for a pulsepoint with a trembling hand. she's never been faced with this kind of sharp, acrid fear before, this flare of panic — only marginally quelled by the faint (too faint, too light) beat of his heart under her fingertips. their time is running out, and she knows it, as terrifying as the reality happens to be, but they need to leave. they need to get peter to a hospital.

this is no longer optional.

she looks desperately around the shopfront, like there's a better way out. she could carry him easily if she needs to, haul him out and maybe find medical attention or the other guardians.

(or, more likely, she'll run right into the kree, given their track record.)

a hiss of a curse under her breath, and gamora holds peter closer, hating how— helpless this makes her feel. she has spent so much time devoted to being the complete opposite, but here she is, control ripped from her fingertips, sliding further and further from her grasp like she's tried to grab a fistful of water.

just as effective. (just as hopeless.)

but as the guardians tend to attract mayhem and trouble, they also tend to have exactly the right timing.

she can hear a sudden upswing of noise on the street outside of the store. yelling, gunfire, the occasional scream and swear that accompanies an all-too familiar victorious laugh. she can hear the deafening destruction ringing through the bazaar as the last of the kree mercenaries encounter gamora's overenthusiastic teammates (rocket's foul mouth, drax's challenges, a tiny, squeaky "i am groot!" hollered with the sound of cracking branches and more shrieks from the kree).

everything is chaos and an overwhelming cacophony of sound, and then—

the dust settles.

"where the hell are you guys? these assholes are dead already, so can we frickin' leave or what?"

gamora wastes absolutely no time scooping quill up off of the floor (a little cumbersome, given that he is far from a small man), but his weight doesn't bother her in the slightest as she rushes to the front door.

...which she unceremoniously kicks down, barricade and all.

she steps into the street, sees their companions, and makes a beeline for them. ]

We're going. Now.

[ the other three look quickly from her to peter, and there isn't an ounce of protest among them.

(a little squabbling, because what the fuck happened? and when did he get shot? and, a little more heavily, "...is he still alive?"

explanations will come later, gamora promises them.

but in deference to the final question: for now.)

there's a medical center on the planet, luckily for them. they take the milano there at top speed, barely waiting to dock before drax is carrying peter out of the ship (with gamora on his heels) to bring a barely-breathing terran onto a waiting gurney. gamora nearly shouts them down when they tell her to stay put, because no, she won't leave his side, don't you dare try to make her—

until drax sets a large hand on her shoulder, levels her with one of those heavy, silent stares. gamora realizes she's not the only one panicked or worried about peter, and while they all want to be there, they have to wait.

let the doctors work.

gamora feels unbalanced, overwrought, and at first, she doesn't know how to calm (because she doesn't know if peter's going to be all right. he'd been clinging to life so tenuously when they'd brought him in, hardly breathing, pale and clammy and—). she doesn't settle until she returns to the milano. she paces the length of the ship, her fingers flexing at her side as she tries to rein herself in, to bring it all down to her carefully-perfected measure of ease, but— it doesn't come, not until she finds herself in peter's bunk, staring at the tapes he'd so willingly offered up to her in his last moment of consciousness.

hesitation, but only briefly, and then she returns with peter's walkman and headphones.

she sits in the waiting room with the others, elvin bishop crooning softly in her ears.

free on my own, that's the way i used to be
but since i met you, baby, love's got a hold on me

she waits.

they all wait.

it's hours before they're given any information whatsoever, and when the doctor approaches the four misfits in the waiting room, they all immediately rise for the news.

he's alive.

he'll recover.

the collective sigh of relief breaks the silence that had hovered between them since peter was taken.

he's alive. he's alive, and the realization keeps echoing for gamora as the doctor explains the circumstances in more precise detail, but gamora interrupts him to ask, ]

Can we see him?

[ when peter finally wakes in his hospital bed, it will be gamora in the chair by his side, his walkman in her lap as she keeps quiet, constant vigil.

she insisted, after all, and given the fact that she'd been the one to see peter through the entire mess, their teammates don't fight her on it. ]

[ Peter's not aware of much in the outside world, which is probably a good thing, all things considered. He doesn't dream, either, which is even better, because his dreams are plagued so often by memories from his past or visions of mistakes he'd likely make in the future, warped by his unconscious mind.

Sometimes, it's not a good time.

Instead, he floats in blackness, distant and hardly there. Something between asleep and some place else that Peter doesn't know the name for. His hand wraps around a strained tether keeping him secured against churning waves of something that threatens to pull him away – a tether becoming more and more frayed as time passes. The threads snap, unraveling, and soon, the tether won't be able to bear his weight. And that should be worrying, except the waters are warm. For as violently as they pull on him, Peter gets that impression that a sense of peace waits him, deep in the dark.

How bad could it be? he wonders, and his grip loosens a little, and the dark waves pull him a little deeper. How bad could it be, letting go? Letting the currents drag him under the surface? It'd be a lot simpler, and Peter's always been about the path of least resistance. The easy way out. The one that means he doesn't have to try.

He could just— stop.

(his heartbeat, thready and weak, nearly disappearing as they work to keep him alive.)

But a voice rings in his ears, cuts through the silence – familiar but alien, if only because the word falls so rarely from her lips:

Please.

And Peter—

—hesitates—

—sighs—

—and wraps both hands around that unraveling rope.

The waves batter him, pull at him, try and try and try to drag him down, singing of peace and quiet and rest. It's tempting. It's really fucking tempting, but still he holds on with all his might. The tether still threatens to snap, to abandon him to the dark, but—

But at least Peter can say he tried. Because for once in his fucked up life, someone wants him to do the work. Someone believes he's capable of it.

Someone thinks he's worth the trouble.

Alright, he thinks faintly, gritting his teeth, trying to pull himself back up. Alright.

But only because you said the magic word.

The first thing he's aware of is pain.

An ache that drills deep into his core. His entire body feels leaden, weighted down, nerves buzzing and alert while his mind isn't. Pain is— probably good, he thinks sluggishly. He should probably leave himself to it, he thinks; should probably let his body contend with all that bullshit while he slips back into unconsciousness.

No such luck. At least, not right away.

He's lying on his side (in deference to his wounded back, he'll realize later). He makes a small, dismayed noise when he tries to shift, though he's hardly aware of it.

Sound comes next: machines, beeping around him. The quiet drone of distant conversation, of muted messages over crackling PA systems overhead. The tinny hum of music, played through small speakers. Then smell, as something astringent hits his nose, like the tang of disinfectant. Something metallic, coppery, after that. His mouth is drier than Death Valley, his tongue thick and heavy like a beached whale.

God, he feels like shit.

Light assaults him when he cracks open an eye, stabs straight through to his aching brain, and he lets out another strained sound as he screws his eyes closed again.

Attempt number two is marginally better than the first, though his vision is blurred, leaves a whole fucking lot to be desired. He blinks his eyes open slowly, and what greets him are blotches of colors, of shapes.

A smear of familiar green that makes him relax. ]

... Gamora? [ A creak of his lungs, rather than a voice; it sounds more like G'morhhh...? ]

[ gamora is exhausted by this point.

she's spent so long on high alert over the last however many hours since the marketplace, and despite the fact that she probably could rest easy, maybe nap a little, she hasn't. she's kept her attention on peter, kept herself awake, because she needs to see that he's alive.

(she can't sleep until she sees it.)

the instant he starts to shift in bed, her gaze snaps immediately to him. she pushes the headphones away from her ears, letting them hand around her neck in favor of listening for the soft, distressed noise peter manages to dredge up as he claws his way out of anesthesia-induced unconsciousness. but that's the thing that matters, isn't it? he's moving. genuine sounds coming from him.

proof that he's alive.

she slowly exhales as she shifts forward in her seat, reaching out to set her hand on peter's wrist ever so lightly. ]

I'm here.

[ quiet, but reassuringly firm. ]

You are in the hospital.

[ an explanation, if he can make sense of it at this point (one she doesn't mind repeating later, if he can't). ]

[ He hears her, even if he doesn't quite comprehend the words yet. His mind is still a haze – muddled by the drugs, by the sleep whose grip he still hasn't quite shaken.

The tone helps, though. The reassurance. It's comforting, but more than that, it's—

It's Gamora.

And if he were more awake, more lucid, he'd be embarrassed by just how easily her presence soothes him, would be mortified by the reminder of just how fucking bad he has it for her.

But for now, it's just how it is. ]

What—?

[ What happened? is what he was going for, there, except he interrupts himself by stifling a cry behind his teeth when he makes the poor decision of trying to sit up. He screws his eyes shut again, falling back against the mattress as the wound throbs, and he twists his hands into the sheets beneath him. ]

[ well, she would have had an answer for him, but peter tries to move in every way that he shouldn't. gamora immediately gets up from the chair (mindful that the walkman is clipped to her belt so it doesn't clatter to the floor), moving her hand from peter's wrist to his shoulder in an attempt to help him steady, to keep him from shifting all over again. ]

You really need to remain still.

[ ...as if that wasn't already obvious from how poorly his first attempt had gone.

but to make it less confusing: ]

You have only just had surgery, and the wound is still incredibly fresh.

[ and unlike others who shall remain nameless, he's not going to be healed in the time between going under the knife and finally waking again. ]

[ A hand on his shoulder, holding him steady, though he hardly registers it for the fire that burns up and down his side, reverberating everywhere in him. It feels like hours before it finally eases up enough to allow him to draw a full breath, to let him find his voice again, broken and hardly there as it is. ]

Shit—

[ —is the first thing he manages to say, once his lungs expand enough to admit enough air for a whisper. He draws in another breath, hands still clenched around the sheets of his bed.

The next thing he manages is, ]

Hurts—

[ Which isn't anything either of them don't already know, but apparently he still feels the need to share. ]

I know it does.

[ her tone is sympathetic, though, rather than clipped and exasperated like she may have been in another circumstance, in a different instance of peter finding himself injured.

(this is more extreme than previous injuries, though. this genuinely frightened her.)

she's still steady, unyielding but kind in the way she holds his shoulder, in the rest of her words, ]

But you're alive.

[ pain is a small price to pay — and a reminder that he is, indeed, alive.

on the other hand, she does know that terrans' pain tolerances are nowhere near her own, and with how much this clearly hurts, drugs wouldn't be the worst option. ]

I'll inform them that you're awake, and see about medication to alleviate this pain.

No—

[ And the word escapes him before he’s fully conscious of it. One hand untangles itself from the sheet, reaches up to grasp at her wrist.

The pain, the last dregs of drugs, and the film of sleep still clinging to him leave him wildly disoriented, but at least Gamora makes sense, is familiar enough to provide him some comfort.

Because even if he’s still not fully coherent, isn’t quite there just yet, he knows, at least, that he’s in a hospital – spent too much time as a child in waiting rooms and next to metal cots to not know, in fact. And hospitals are bad fucking news, are pallid skin and weak, barely there smiles, are thin sheets and squeaking bed frames, are blaring alarms and screams and the plummeting sensation of the bottom dropping out of the world—

He doesn’t want to be here. Still doesn’t quite understand why he’s here, except that being in places like this—

It means loss.

He’s glassy-eyed when he looks up at her, panic edging into his expression. ]

Don’t— please, don’t go—

[ that surprises her: the way he grabs her wrist, that desperate, panicked look on his bewildered, pain-ridden face. she hesitates, if only for a moment (if only because she thinks he might genuinely need the medication), but she finally nods. ]

All right.

[ carefully, she reaches for peter's hand to unfurl his fingers, to exchange her wrist for her own hand instead. something grounding, something concrete.

something real and safe in the face of whatever had shaken him so deeply. ]

I'll stay right here.

[ she can't pinpoint exactly what has him terrified, but she imagines the combination of so many different forms of trauma (either past or from their most recent misadventure) have done him no favors in offering comfort. if this can help, however, she'll gladly give it to him. ]

[ He clings to her hand a little too tightly, a little too desperately, and he screws his eyes shut again, trying to make sense of it all.

Gamora’s hand is warm in his, something steady while everything else is still a blur – the room, his head, everything. It takes a few seconds for him to catch his breath, for the pain in his side to fade to an ever-present throb, but when it does, he opens his eyes again, focusing on Gamora’s face.

(Jesus, she’s beautiful, he thinks distantly.)

He licks his lips; his tongue still feels like sandpaper in his mouth, his throat lined with gravel. ]

… Okay?

[ Another wheeze. He means to ask, Are you okay? but apparently can’t dredge up that many words right now. ]

[ she admittedly isn't sure at first of what he's trying to ask. is he asking about her? himself? the entire situation?

it's hard to parse specifics when he's struggling to get words out at all, but she takes a careful, tentative seat on the edge of his bed as she considers him. she doesn't release his hand or seem motivated to encourage him to ease up (she can handle whatever sort of pressure he can manage like this, after all), and instead, shifts her hand to let their fingers lace together, more of an anchor for him. ]

Everything is okay.

[ there, there's more comprehensive, she thinks. ]

You have made it through, and no one else is injured.

[ including herself. ]

[ That’s a relief, and Peter relaxes a little, his hand loosening its grip – not enough to drop her hand entirely, but enough that it probably shouldn’t be characterized as bruising, anymore. ]

Good...

[ Because that means they’re here just because of him, in all likelihood. That he doesn’t have to sit at the bedside of one of his friends, doesn’t have to reintroduce himself to that feeling of helplessness that used to crawl up his throat as a kid, doesn’t have to watch one of his teammates wither and fade while he could only watch—

They’re safe. Everyone’s safe.

So they can leave this place as soon as fucking possible.

With his free hand, he scrubs at his face, the heel of his palm rubbing at his eyes. His throat works for a few seconds – and confused as he is, dozens and dozens of questions crowd behind his teeth, fighting to be asked first. They all seem as viable as the last, and he’s quiet as he struggles to decide which he’ll put voice to.

He coughs a little, decides to give his first question a round two: ]

What... what happened?

[ Pat on the back, Quill. A full sentence. Multisyllabic words.

Lucidity might be reasserting itself. ]

[ now that's a much more workable level of articulation.

a full sentence, she can answer. ]

You fell unconscious after some time while we were hiding from the Kree who ambushed us. Fortunately, our companions were closeby, and the Kree were dealt with quickly.

I don't think any of them remain alive.

[ gamora regrets that she couldn't do the honors herself, but keeping peter sheltered and alive had been more of a priority at the time. ]

We brought you to the closest hospital, and you underwent surgery to remove the bullet from your abdomen and repair the damage that had been done.

You may be here for a short while, but you'll make a full recovery.

[ gamora spins with that reality, if only because knowing that peter is going to be fine, that he's made it through, still catches her off guard in the best way possible. it had been such a painfully close call, and in the face of that, gamora is just...grateful to know he's come out the other side. ]

[ It takes him a few seconds to sort through the explanation, to match memories to her words. A sunny street, with warm, pleasant weather. Booths and kiosks selling various odds and ends – the uses for which were largely incomprehensible to Peter, but they looked cool, nevertheless. A smiling old woman, holding a pendant hanging from a suede cord.

Then chaos.

Then hazy flashes of a quiet, dusty little room, and—

That’s where it stops. Peter frowns a little, tucking his hand under the edge of the blanket covering him to carefully feel along his side. He can feel the rough edges of bandages through the hospital gown they’ve put him in. He hisses in a breath as the wound pulses in warning, and he pulls his hand away. ]

Explains... a lot.

[ is what he settles on at length. It’s like peering through a window to a fog-filled expanse, catching only glimpses of everything below. It’ll clear up, probably.

He’s not sure if he cares if it does or doesn’t.

This time, he’s a little more careful as he shifts, moving slowly, gingerly, and stopping exactly when he feels that warning pulse again. ]

When can I leave?

[ Because maybe if he’s lucky, they can leave now.

(But when is he ever lucky?) ]

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god i am sorry for this tl;dr

never be sorry

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