19859/Cold Comfort

Cold Comfort
Date of Scene:	13 January 2025
Location:	Eriadnae Epsilon IV
Synopsis:	On a mission to retrieve an artifact on Eriadnae Epsilon IV, Peter and Gamora's escape vessel is shot down in the middle of a blizzard, and they're forced to find shelter to hide from patrols and tend to their injuries.
Cast of Characters:	Gamora, Peter Quill

---

Gamora has posed:
The snow falls in heavy, uneven sheets, driven by gusts of icy wind that bite through even the thickest layers. Gamora grits her teeth, her breath steaming in the air as she shifts her weight against Peter's side. Every step sends a sharp lance of pain up her injured leg, but she keeps moving, her determination as unyielding as the storm closing in around them.

Ahead, the forest stretches in endless, darkened rows of towering evergreens. Snow clings to their branches, blanketing the ground in a heavy, pristine layer that muffles all sound except the crunch of their boots and the distant whine of patrol engines.

"Almost there," Peter mutters beside her, his voice strained. He's supporting most of her weight now, his arm looped tightly around her waist. She can feel his tension, the sharp intake of breath every time they stumble or slip.

She spares him a glance. Blood streaks his forehead, smudged against the dirty snow where he wiped it earlier. His jacket is torn at the shoulder, exposing the jagged edges of his shirt and a spreading patch of dark red. He's worse off than he's letting on, but there's no time to argue about it.

"We need to keep moving," Gamora says, her voice flat but laced with urgency. She shifts against him, trying to take more of her own weight, but her leg buckles almost immediately. Peter catches her, his grip tightening.

"You're welcome for saving you from face-planting in the snow," he says with a weak grin.

Gamora huffs, her breath visible in the cold. "If you hadn't flown directly into their turret fire, we wouldn't be here."

"Oh, so it's my fault now?" His tone is light, teasing, but there's an edge to it -- frustration tempered by exhaustion.

"It's always your fault," she replies. But there's no venom in her words, just a thread of familiarity that cuts through the cold.

Up ahead, the dark outline of the cabin finally comes into view, barely distinguishable from the shadows of the forest. Gamora inhales sharply, nodding toward it. "There."

Peter looks up, his eyes narrowing as he squints through the snow. "Please tell me you're not hallucinating," he says.

"It's real."

They stagger the last few meters in silence, the crunch of snow beneath their boots growing louder as the wind howls around them. The cabin is smaller than Gamora had remembered, little more than a wooden box with a slanted roof, but it's shelter -- and right now, it's their best chance.

The windows are coated with frost, the glass opaque in the fading light. A wooden door hangs slightly ajar, creaking faintly as the wind catches it. Gamora pauses, her hand gripping Peter's arm for balance. She peers through the gathering gloom, her sharp eyes scanning for signs of movement.

"Do you think it's occupied?" Peter whispers, his breath ghosting against her ear.

Gamora shakes her head. "No smoke from the chimney. No footprints in the snow. It's abandoned."

For a moment, they stand there in the deepening cold, the storm swirling around them. The sky above is a muted gray, heavy with clouds that promise more snow before the night is over. In the distance, the faint hum of a patrol ship cuts through the silence, its searchlight sweeping across the treetops.

Gamora stiffens, her grip tightening on Peter's arm. "We need to get inside. Now."

Peter nods, his usual bravado absent. Together, they limp toward the cabin, their movements slow but determined. The snow falls harder, the wind whipping it into stinging flurries that obscure the forest behind them.

Gamora has posed:
Gamora glances back once before they reach the door, her eyes scanning the darkened trees for any sign of pursuit. There's nothing but shadows and snow, but the feeling of being watched lingers, pressing against her like the cold.

When they reach the threshold, she pauses, her hand brushing against the doorframe. "Peter," she says, her voice low but firm. "Whatever happens, we can't let them find the artifact."

Peter looks at her, his face pale and drawn but still carrying the faint spark of mischief that never quite fades. "Don't worry," he says. "They'll have to go through us first."

Gamora doesn't answer, but she steps inside, the cold giving way to the musty scent of wood and stale air. The patrol ships hum louder in the distance as the door creaks shut behind them, leaving the snowstorm to rage on outside.

Peter Quill has posed:
'It's always your fault'

It's a familiar refrain now, one that Peter Quill, better know as Starlord -- or so he continues to insist -- has heard many times before.

Sometimes there is a measure of truth to that claim. He does usually have a way of getting them into trouble afterall and while he might be the 'master planner' in the group, those plans do have a tendency to go awry with a disturbing frequency.

But as fast as he can get them into trouble, he's just as likely to get them back out again with some quick thinking or some of that absolutely uncanny luck that seems to cling to him like a second skin, making even his wildest of ideas bear fruit. When it really, really counts.

He is also occasionally not at fault. The unspoken part of that phrase, if continued would be 'Even when it's not your fault, it's still your fault.'

But this time? This time he was definitely at fault.

The entire job on the moon of Eriadnae Epsilon IV had been his idea afterall. It seemed like the sort of thing that was right up their alley. The sort of thing that couldn't really go wrong. The artifact that they were after was valuable but not too valuable. It was in the hands of some pretty disreputable characters who almost definitely stole it themselves. So really, taking it back, selling it to a much more reputable collector, or maybe generous museum or educational institution seemed practically a public service!

They're the good guys afterall.

It should have been simple. It should have been straight forward. So much so that he assured the rest of the team loud and long and Gamora and he could handle it themselves. No point of bringing the whole team along for what should have been a walk in the park. Sit back, relax, and wait for them to return with their cut.

But things can quickly change when you actually get out on the job. When you find out what you're really trying to take and who you're really trying to take it from.

And when you end up steering the getaway speeder into a bank of turret laser fire after badly misjudging the difficulty of the situation?

Yeah, it's pretty much his fault.

Not that he is going to cop to that with her right here. It would set a horrible precedent. It would also take away what is likely to be the most heated conversation they'll have to look forward to for the next several hours. Anger warms the blood.

And from the look of that cabin, they're probably going to need every last bit of warmth they can manage to find.

Walking through a snow storm is the worst. Blinded as if wandering through a fog, freezing cold, and as the snow piles up it gets harder and harder to make progress. More and more effort needs to be expended. It's worse then walking on sand, shifting beneath your feet. At least those same feet are only likely to sink a few inches at most. But trudging through the snow? Every step takes them up to their calves -- if they're lucky. Up to their thighs, or hips if they happen to step into a gulley. Trying to break a trail through that? It drains you.

It drains you more when your protective clothing is ripped. When you're losing blood. When your leg barely lets you walk. And losing your energy, not making it to shelter, that could be fatal. If being a little annoyed with him is going to keep them both going, yeah, Peter is pretty okay with that.

So when she says she sees that cabin, he doesn't believe her at first. Or if he does, he can't help but provoke her just a little. "You sure you don't need glasses? I think you'd look good in glasses. Like a really angry librarian. You just know that you wouldn't want to return a book late to you," he mutters, half under his breath, half distinctly not.

But as they stumble forward, it becomes more and more obvious that the cabin is really. Though only marginally better then staying out in the storm.

Peter Quill has posed:
Her rejoinder, that instance that they can't let the artifact be found, be reclaimed from those that they stole it from gets his assurance. It's another little reminder that he screwed this up true, but he knows that's not the intent.

Gamora is delightfully direct afterall in her accusations about him messing up. Really, it's part of her charm.

Pushing their way in, doing his best to close that door, to minimize the cracks that let in the cold, the shelter at least breaks the driving wind which alone makes it ten million times better then it was and Peter hugs himself, rubbing at his arms, at his chest, trying to warm himself. "I'm not sure we can risk starting a fire," he says, finally pulling out a glowrod, sweeping it across the darkened interior of the dilapidated cabin. "The snow might mask the smoke for awhile, but the scent of wood burning will carry a pretty good ways, even in this," he mutters, looking around for somewhere he can at least get her to sit. Long enough to take a look at her leg.

Long enough to see what, if anything they managed to salvage from the wreck. Anything that might keep them alive until they can come up with a way out of this mess.

Hopefully something that she can stab with her sword. So she's not tempted to use it on him.

Gamora has posed:
Each step is a battle.

The icy wind slices through her, sharp and relentless, and the uneven snow pulls at her legs with every step, threatening to drag her down. Her injured leg burns, a hot, insistent pain that only grows worse as they push forward. Stopping isn't an option. Not until they're inside.

Peter's voice carries over the howling storm, some nonsense about glasses and librarians, and Gamora exhales, the sound as close to a sigh as she'll allow herself.

"I do not need... glasses. And if you... have the energy to spout nonsense, you... have the energy to move faster."

Her grip tightens on his shoulder as they trudge forward, his support keeping her upright even when the ground shifts beneath her feet.

For a moment, her balance wavers, and she leans harder on him, but she forces herself to straighten, refusing to show even more vulnerability than she already has to. It grates on her to need help, but survival takes precedence over pride.

Ahead, the cabin takes shape through the swirling snow, small and weathered but solid enough to hold out the storm. It isn't much -- a few rough boards cobbled together in the middle of nowhere -- but it's enough. It has to be.

Gamora glances back over her shoulder, her sharp eyes cutting through the dim light and falling snow to scan the forest behind them. The storm cloaks their trail well, but she doesn't trust it.

"They'll sweep the area again. We need to stay quiet."

When they reach the cabin, she pauses at the door, leaning heavily on the weathered frame. Her breath comes in sharp bursts, each exhale visible in the freezing air. She takes a moment to scan the interior, her sharp eyes sweeping over the darkened space.

"It's not much," she mutters, "but it'll do."

The door creaks open as they step inside, the sound splitting the oppressive silence of the storm. The air is still bitterly cold but quieter, sheltered from the worst of the wind. The faint smell of wood rot lingers, mixing with the sharp bite of frost that clings to the windows and walls. There's a single worn bed shoved against one wall and a rickety chair near a rusted stove. It's far from ideal, but it's better than freezing.

Her eyes linger on the stove, the faint hope of warmth flickering out like wet kindling at Peter's warning about the smoke, and she forces the thought aside. He's right, as much as she hates to admit it. It isn't worth the risk.

Instead, she limps toward the chair, lowering herself into it with a sharp intake of breath. The movement sends another jolt of pain through her leg, and her jaw tightens as she fights to mask it. She pulls the cross-body satchel she was carrying over her shoulder, setting on the table beside her.

It's not much. A basic first aid kit. An emergency transmitter that the patrols will probably be able to pick up. The artifact they stole. A small pilot's tool kit. A flare gun. A pack of rations. Maybe a few other small things. Nothing that looks like it would save them from long-term frostbite or starvation.

Godslayer rests across her lap, collapsed, like an assassin's version of a teddy bear -- her only comfort when the situation is this dire. One hand brushes the hilt absently, her fingers tightening around it for a moment before letting go.

"It's better than freezing," she mutters, bending over her lap to reach a hand down to the side of her knee, closing her eyes briefly. After a moment, her gaze lifts to Peter, her tone softening. "Your shoulder is bleeding. You should sit before you fall over. I need to look at your wound."

Peter Quill has posed:
Their chosen shelter certainly isn't much to look at.

Not that it is terribly easy to look around at all mind you. The windows -- what there are -- are frosted over. But even without that, they are covered in a layer of dust and splattered by the elements, so while not blacked out, what light gets in is dimmed. Add to that the heavy snowfall and the surrounding trees and though it might still be light out, the cabin is definitely wrapped up in a veil of gloom.

The furniture is scarce, crude and not in the best of shape with the chair looking a little wobbly and the bed hard and uncomfortable. That stove might work -- or the rusted bottom might fall out of it -- but they both seem to be in agreement that trying it is a non-starter. At least for now.

And if they are here long enough where they have the opportunity to put it to use, something has probably gone badly wrong.

As Quill helps Gamora into that chair -- as discretely as possible given that he is already in danger of getting on her last nerve, he does his best not to wince.

Stumbling around in the cold, desperately trying to stay one step ahead of their pursuers pumped enough adrenaline into his system to dull the pain to a distant ache. The constant invading cold probably helped as well, right along with that desire not to show weakness in front of his partner in his endeavor. Especially when she's soldiering along on a bad leg.

But now that they are slowing down? Now that their desperate search for shelter has borne at least a little fruit? Now that they are out of the sheer driving cold and have some shelter from the wind? Now some of that pain is beginning to set in.

The jacket he wears obscures the injury, though the blackened char around the tear and the bloodstains that now mark the fabric are testament enough to the fact that his situation is not a whole lot better then hers. They could both probably use a doctor's attention. Or at least the more substantial resources found aboard the Milano.

Unfortunately they are not going to get either of those things. Possibly not anytime in the near future. And what resources they do have? Well, making sure that Gamora can walk out of here seems a little more important then insuring that his arm doesn't have a boo-boo.

Then again, as his fingers tingle with a numbness that he is not sure is caused by the chill or blood loss, he might have to rethink that. At least a little.

"Saying it's not much might be giving it too much credit. This place has either been abandoned for years, or it was put together by someone with less building skill then, well me," Peter mutters, looking over the supplies that have been dumped out on the table. At least there's food for a few days -- if you can call MREs food. But that medkit is looking awfully scant right at the moment.

"And you should worry about yourself Hop-a-long," Quill counters, forcing a smile onto his face. "We better see what we can do about your leg first. Unless you want me to carry you piggy-back style out of here. Now that would be a sight," he offers up with a playful smirk, struggling not to let it turn into a grimace.

Is he playing with fire? Maybe just a bit. There's no way that Gamora will ever give up. He knows that. But this is one time where having her mad at him seems like the lesser evil then just having her exhausted.

Gamora has posed:
'...or it was put together by someone with less building skill then, well... me.'

"That's hard to imagine."

She used to say things like that because she loathed him. Back when she first met him, when they were arrested on Xandar, she'd lob almost any insult at him just to try to bring his over-inflated ego down a notch or ten.

However, that was then. Well before she began to feel like the Milano was where she belonged -- her home. Over those years, genuine warmth has crept into her words. And while yes, Gamora is the same prickly assassin she has always been, it doesn't take Mantis to tell she's developed a fondness for Peter -- and the rest of the crew -- no matter how low those odds might have seemed in the beginning.

So, this is their 'unspoken thing' (which doesn't exist). He does his best to get under her skin, time and again, and she refuses to admit that, now matter how much it may seem like she might murder him rather than dealing with one more second his bullshit, she's gotten attached to him. Again... who could have predicted that?

"I do not 'hop.' Along or otherwise," she spits venomously. "And I am not climbing onto your back. I'd sooner stay here."

Despite her frosty exterior rivaling the outside of their makeshift shelter, though, she's been watching him. Green skin. Sharp yellow eyes. Darker green lips pressed into a line. Her entire body is a weapon, crafted over years by the Mad Titan, Thanos. Over years of training and surgical modifications, he crafted the deadliest woman in the galaxy. And for the entire time Peter has been futzing around with the supplies, that woman has been watching him. Noting every tick. Every wince. Every shift of his weight. Every held breath.

She's not a doctor. She's a ruthless assassin. But she can spot a weakness from a mile away.

"It's basic triage. Bleeding comes before limping. Stand here." She points at the space beside her so she can reach his shoulder without standing -- if he complies -- and sets Godslayer on the table beside her, picking up the medkit to set in her lap instead. "I need to see how bad it is and clean it so it doesn't get infected. Then I'll look at my leg."

I will. Not 'we' will.

Peter Quill has posed:
They have come a long way.

The entire crew has really. Theirs was an association of convenience more then anything else if they are all being honest with themselves. Necessity more then desire or the bonds of friendship bringing them together, forcing them to work together.

They are such a disparate group really. So different from one another. They really shouldn't work at all. Peter might love the Milano, but it isn't exactly the biggest ship and all of them being crammed into it together? Confined in a close space? Familiarity should have bred contempt.

But it didn't. It created a sense of belonging. A kind of home. They might bicker and squabble, they might even occasionally fight. But they will always be there for one another.

Sometimes even when the other would rather they weren't.

For a moment Peter looks plainly exasperated on her insistence that she check out his wound, to tend to it first if necessary. He almost wants to yell at her. But only almost. In part because he knows that she is probably right. In part because even if she is on his side, Gamora can be pretty scary.

"Ugh, you're always so damn stubborn," he says, brow furrowed as he stares at her, as if he can somehow will her into giving in just this once. This one little time. To give him his way, just because.

But then he smiles instead. The expression looking particularly smug. And it is almost possible to hear those words, almost possible to hear that taunt. 'Because yooooooou caaaaaare.' However, seeing as it won't do either of them much good to have her go storming back out into the cold - well, the cold-er - and snow, he refrains from actually saying the word and instead just slowly sinks down into the other chair.

"Fine, whatever. Just don't come blame me when your foot falls off. You won't be nearly as scary hopping along on one foot," he says before pausing and tilting his head to the side. "Unless you replace that foot with a sword. That would be pretty terrifying really."

Then, perhaps worried that she might take the idea to heart, Quill quickly adds, "That wasn't a suggestion!"

Gamora has posed:
"I can't help it that I have better ideas."

It's delivered so flatly. So matter-of-factly. It's hard to tell whether or not there's any playfulness at all in those words, but given that humor isn't really Gamora's go-to, she's probably deadly serious.

Of course, everyone on the team probably thinks they have the best ideas. In reality, it's much more complicated than that. It's an amalgamation of diverse backgrounds, personalities, strengths, and weaknesses that make them such a great team.

Like Kirth and Sprock, the great warriors Peter told her about, who explored the galaxy to expand their united empire of planets.

For better or worse, Peter is their leader, though. And while he might not always have the best ideas, he has such an unexpected gift -- to bring people together, to unite them, to find their common bonds and get them to trust one another. For all of his bluster, he is such a uniquely compassionate and sincere soul -- like a child -- that it's hard not to relax your guard around him. And more than once, over the years, Gamora has had to catch herself.

She hates what she is and what she's done. She hates Thanos for making her. She has, many times in her life, wished she was dead... and she would be dead, if it hadn't been for the singular, driving force that propelled her forward: vengeance.

Peter and the other Guardians replaced that driving force with something else, though. Something softer. Something warmer. A want to belong. A want for family. A want to undo some of the awful things she's done, to give a little back to a galaxy she's taken so much from in the name of the Mad Titan.

So, it isn't scorn that Peter gets when he looks at her 'like that.' It might have been a more violent reaction had he gone through with the taunt, but at the mere expression on his face, she rolls her eyes. They don't need words. After nearly five years of living and fighting side-by-side, there's a lot that could be communicated with a look alone.

Gloved hands reach up to tug the lapel of his jacket open -- maybe just a little more forcefully than is absolutely necessary as 'punishment' for his antics -- so she can see the blood-soaked shirt underneath.

"Hold the light so I can see."

She's already ripping the shirt open, getting the contaminated material away from the cut, her stoic expression entirely unphased by what she sees. She might as well be painting a picture or watching a console on the Milano. There's not even a hint of 'how bad' she thinks it is.

One hand continues to hold the shirt open while the other reaches into the medkit in her lap, picking out a wipe to clean the skin with.

"How do you even come up with these things?"

Apparently she hadn't simply brushed aside the whole 'sword for a leg' thing, after all. Or maybe she just thought keeping him occupied with conversation might make this go a little more smoothly.

Peter Quill has posed:
Certainly Peter falls into the category of believing that he has better plans.

In fairness, he at least benefits from at least almost always having some semblance of one. No matter how desperate, how dire, or how sudden a situation might present itself, Quill can usually be counted to come up with something. Sometimes it is only twelve percent of a plan. But that is one of his greatest strengths. Somehow he finds a way to make those notions - sometimes those very wild and unrealistic notions - come to fruition. To somehow work.

Some people are of the firm belief that it is better to be lucky then it is to be good. And Peter Quill - Star-Lord - would seem to be the living embodiment of that particular belief. On a pretty regular basis.

While they might run each other down, might be dismissive of each other's abilities, of what they bring to the team at times, the fact is that they have come to rely on each other. To trust each other. Even here. Even now. Either one of them would probably have struggled by now. Have faltered. Yes, they might have pushed on ahead, but not as effectively. Alone they might have ended up captured. Along they might have succumbed to their injuries. They might have seen their prize fall back into the hands of those who don't deserve it and can't be trusted with it.

But together? They might just get out of this with their skins intact - more or less - and the strange artifact still in their possession. And that's definitely something.

They just might annoy each other to death in the process is all.

So Peter does out and out dispute her assertion that her plans are best, just makes a faint 'pffffft' sound.

He does take the light though, holding it with his good hand and tries to angle it across his far upper arm, to shed a little illumination on the situation given just how dim their current surroundings are. "That good?"

He tries not to wince as she gets the sleeve of the jacket out of the way, biting down to prevent from making any sort of noise, and it doesn't get any easier when she tears at his shirt instead, looking to get a better look at the wound, to clear away as much of the dirtied fabric as possible.

The wound isn't pretty, but unless he's very unlikely he shouldn't lose his arm or anything either. It still oozes some, though the blood loss does appear to have slowed, though it is ugly looking and messy, smeared blood marking his upper arm.

"Give it to me straight Gamora. Am I going to lose the arm? Are they going to call me 'ol One-Arm' instead of Star-Lord?" he asks, though it seems safe to assume he's not being entirely serious. "For the love of god, please tell me it isn't going to scar. My baby-soft flesh is one of my biggest selling points."

It's hard to know what exactly it would take to knock the smart-ass out of Quill. It's probably better that they don't find out. While it might seem appealing on some level, it would probably mean something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Gamora has posed:
Strong but slender green fingers still when Quill opens up and admits his biggest fear -- that the wound will scar. Gamora's eyes lift to his face in the light, her head tilting ever so slightly, though it's enough to shift that dark hair against her cheek.

'Really?'

She doesn't even have to say it. She just shakes her head and goes back to her work.

"Speaking of being a baby. We're both lucky. This kit doesn't have any sutures in it. Otherwise your screaming might give away our hiding spot," she grumbles. "I'll clean it and bandage it. That'll be enough keep it from getting infected until we can get back to some real supplies."

Always so serious.

So careful.

The wound is, in fact, still oozing some, but she's pretty efficient in getting the skin around it clean. She's also surprisingly tender, once she's set to work. Some people mistake her for being a blunt instrument -- a hit woman. But she's so much more than that. She's an assassin. An artist with a blade. A mistress of the shadows. A wraith, when she wants to be.

But more than that, she's a person. A woman. And no matter how frustrated she may get with their Star-Lord, she does, in fact, care.

She tosses the bloodied towelette to the cabin's floor and opens one of the pre-packaged bandages, tossing the wrapping onto the floor as well as she shifts the clothes aside enough to press it to his skin, to seal the cut away from grime of the cabin, the dried blood, the sweat and gods know what else lingers on the inside of his jacket.

"There."

Peter Quill has posed:
Quill is not completely incapable of being serious, despite how it might appear at times.

When it truly matters, when the stakes are at their highest he seems to be able to pull out a level f determination, of grit and fortitude that is a match for anyone else on the team.

It just seems that is not a priority most of the time. Or at the very least he is more comfortable being irreverent. In keeping things light. Not taking anything completely serious.

He can be a child. He can still see wonder in things that should no longer impress him. He definitely has a tendency towards being a smart ass.

But he can also be decisive. He can be resolute. From time to time he can show that his heart is firmly in the right place. And perhaps most of all, he can be loyal. Unwaveringly loyal to his friends. They have all lost things. Important things. They might fight, they might bicker, they might insult one another. But they are closer then a family.

They're a crew.

Not that it means that Quill doesn't seem bound, bent and determined to do something to crack Gamora's demeanor. To break that unrelenting seriousness. To make a few seeds take root that maybe, just maybe will let her enjoy life instead of being all resolve to make up for her past.

That jacket is pretty dirty and that's a problem with open wounds. Even bandaged ones. But he won't be able to do without it for long. Even now, with that adrenaline fading, even out of the wind, he shivers visibly in the cold cabin.

He also stands up a little too quick and for just a moment he quite clearly invades Gamora's face, mere inches separating them. The faint smirk is wiped from his expression, that flippant desire to make a wisecrack gone from his eyes. "Thanks," he murmurs. Quiet. Sincere.

Then he clears his throat and takes a step back as if afraid to push his luck too far, too fast, motioning to that other chair.

"Your turn."

Gamora has posed:
Of all of the Guardians, it sometimes seems as though Gamora might survive the longest if she were stranded, alone, on a deserted moon. Not because of any great skill at finding or creating resources, but because she wouldn't go insane, being left alone with nothing but her own thoughts.

Not any more insane than she's already been, in any case.

In the beginning, it almost seemed like she would have been happier that way -- to have carved out her own bit of isolation in the galaxy, rather than endure the inane prattling of some misfit crew. But there's something about Peter and the rest of the crew. Something that makes her feel like she doesn't have to be alone.

Peter, especially, has this... way.

She doesn't hate his humor, not nearly as often or as forcefully as she would have him believe. But if he knew? If he ever discovered that she actually enjoyed his music or that it was a conscious effort not to smile at his ridiculous wisecracks about Walrus-men having testicles or being even more afraid of her if she had a sword for a leg? Well, she'd be letting him in somewhere he doesn't need to be.

She's not one of his conquests, and when it invariably blew up in her face, she stood the chance of losing... everything. Again.

He doesn't need to know.

But she can't always hide it, either, when it sneaks up on her. When she finds the air suddenly sucked out of the room. When she's looking up at him and, just for a moment, she forgets that she's a weapon. She forgets how to breathe. And it's not the rush of anger or violence that the crackling in the air conjures. It's something much, much deeper and more instinctual. More dangerous. And just for a moment, she feels... warm.

That single word -- Thanks -- seems to echo into infinity, but she doesn't move a muscle. Not one. Not a twitch. Not a reply. Not a lean. Not approval or threat. It's like she's frozen in time.

And then it's over. The cold air is back, assaulting her and filling her lungs, once he steps away.

"You're just going to use this as an excuse to make some wise crack about my legs," she says, the same cold that fills her lungs slipping back into her tone. "I can look at it myself. Why don't you see if you can... get the radio working? Or something."

Anything else.

She pauses a moment, perhaps to see what he'll do. Or maybe she's just doing the math on exactly how she intends to look at her leg. Her pants don't exactly lend themselves to being loose enough to slide up easily. They stretch... a little. She could cut them, but then she loses a layer warmth.

Not to mention that having it propped up on a chair doesn't exactly sound comfortable.

"I'm going to go sit on the bed."

And then she turns to do just that. She shifts her weight to that foot, and without the warmth of recent movement or the adrenaline of running for their lives, her ankle buckles... and she drops.

Peter Quill has posed:
While he might not always seem it, Peter Quill is pretty damn resourceful.

One doesn't get raised by a Ravager crew without learning all sorts of interesting life lessons and while not all of them were particularly good, they do tend to shape one into a survivor.

Could Peter manage out here alone, on this freezing backwater planet, hunted by those that want to kill him for his prize? It would be a foolish thing to bet against him. He's made it this far.

Could he do as well as Gamora? Probably not. His skills in that area don't really come close to matching her own. Even he probably wouldn't deny that. But it is more then that. Peter is, at heart, a social creature. He seeks out others. He's pretty good at getting them to stick around too, as he has shown with the bickering Guardians. He likes the interaction. He needs the interaction. It keeps him upbeat. And while it is a distraction of a sort, it is also what keeps him focused.

Trekking through the snow, both of them injured, it was a lot easier to just focus on keeping moving, one foot in front of the other, knowing that Gamora was relying on him. At least some. She might not like it, but in that moment he was more then just a crutch. That he needed to get them to shelter helped keep his eyes on the prize and from dwelling on the cold, on the pain, on yet another job gone pretty badly wrong.

Even here in the cabin, in the comparative warmth - which is kind of the difference between sitting on a slab of ice in your pants or sitting on it buck ass naked. Sure, one's better then the other, but it's still not pleasant - there is still that undercurrent. She needs him. They need each other.

Sometimes it is about more then just mere survival afterall.

He's not a medical expert of course. He relies on life lessons more then formal training. But Ravagers live a rough and tumble life. He can probably offer at least a little relief. Enough so that when they need to brave the cold again in a few hours it will be just a little more manageable.

If she'll let him.

That's always the big question. He's not dumb. He's not blind to the fact that she didn't exactly hold him in high esteem when they first met. But she stayed, and he's not blind to that either. Catching her in moments when it looks like she is more then what she appears, some stoic figure who only puts up with them because ultimately they find a way to get the job done are admittedly rare. But they happen.

Still, that stubbornness. "At least let me take a look," he starts to argue, some of that exasperation creeping back into his tone. But he doesn't try to stop her, certainly not physically. He makes bad decisions from time to time but he's not crazy.

So when she goes to turn, to head to the scant comfort likely offered by that dilapidated bed he lets out a loud breath, the warmth of it making it frost in the air, a visible reminder that while it might -feel- warmer, it is still far from actually being warm.

And while he might be exasperated, he still reacts quickly when her footing finally fails her, when her ankle buckles and she starts to drop.

Again, Quill shows that he is more then he appears, right there, catching her before she can actually hit the ground, caught in his arms. He does grunt. She's not light, her strength belying that litheness but he manages to straighten.

"Had to do it the hard way," he grouses. But he's careful in the way he holds her, carries her towards the bed, not setting her down despite that probably being the wisest course of action.

Gamora has posed:
There was a time when they would have hit the ground. Both of them. As soon as Peter's hands touched her, she would have grabbed them, rolled, thrown him over her onto his back and put her switchblade against his throat.

Back then, she didn't trust him. And even if she didn't necessarily think he would seize upon that moment to try to kill her or even take advantage, a point would have needed to be made: if he thinks one bad ankle will keep her from killing him, he's sadly mistaken.

But time changes a person. Experiences built trust. Peter has saved her life a number of times, just like she's saved his -- both at great personal risk to themselves. Not only that, their values align. Most the time.

It also helps that where she once saw "Peter Quill," the notorious womanizer, the last few years have shown her a deeper side to him. Given the amount of raw charm that exudes from him and his proclivity to flirt with any attractive humanoid female in his general vicinity, he may always carry that reputation, but the truth of the matter isn't lost on Gamora. He could have gone off chasing some woman -- or women -- and left his crew, his family, in a lurch, but he consistently puts them first. Even if that means the famous Star-Lord sleeps alone.

So when it's Peter's arms that she falls into instead of the ground, they don't roll on the ground. She doesn't put a knife to his throat. She doesn't even try to pull away. Instead, her arm drapes around his shoulders and she stares at him with a glint somewhere between surprised and impressed. Leave it to her to notice the speed and strength required rather than the chivalry of the thing.

Or maybe she just didn't want to think about that part.

"Fine," she mutters, her expression shifting to something more unreadable. There's no thanks offered, but if one looks closely enough, it's buried there in the awkward relief... the way her eyes dip to his mouth instead of lingering on his eyes. "Look, if you want. Just..."

Just what? Just make it quick? Just don't objectify her while he's doing it? Just don't make a big deal about it?

All of the above, probably.

Peter Quill has posed:
The whole 'Star-Lord' thing, the notorious and dangerous outlaw, or the galaxy-spanning hero has always been a little hit or miss.

His reputation has never exactly been what he might want it to be. Whether it is to his friends or enemies, the name Star-Lord doesn't exactly carry the weight that Peter always imagined.

But in fairness, he gets a lot less of them then he did five years ago. He gets a lot less of them then he did before Gamora and Rocket and Drax and Groot and Mantis came into his life.

Of course there are some pretty obvious reasons for that. They have, afterall, managed to do some pretty impressive things in that time, face down some pretty big threats and help a fair number of people.

They have even managed to make a fair number of units along the way which, admittedly, Peter doesn't hate.

He might never entirely dismiss certain parts of his reputation, fairly or unfairly gained over the years. But among those that know him best, there is probably a better understanding that there is more to him then just empty charm. He can be rash, he can be impulsive, his plans might not, in fact, be quite as amazing as he would like to make them out. But he is more then the sum of his parts.

Just like the same holds true for all of them. The Galaxy might have one particular view of their Guardians, but each of them understands that there is more then what is on the surface. What outsiders see. The parts of themselves that only their 'family' gets to see.

Still, even Quill is surprised that he doesn't get one of Gamora's blades pressed up against his throat when he straightens with her still cradled in his arms. Not shocked beyond all belief of course. He's not the only one that has shown there is more to him then one might expect over the years.

But she doesn't always let him get this close.

It's hard. Not to take that grudging acceptance and run with it. Not to push his luck as he so often does, until the universe - usually through Gamora's strong hand - slaps him back down.

But this one time, given their present circumstances, he rains that in. He doesn't gloat, he doesn't tease, he just carries her over to that questionable looking bed, laying her own gently on it.

"See? Was that so hard?"

Okay, he can't entirely let it go without comment.

Gamora has posed:
She may have acclimated to life on the Milano. She may even have come to call those 'scallywags' she flies around with her family. But there have still only been a handful of truly tender moments in Gamora's life.

Moments like calling Nebula her sister and arriving at something that at least resembles trust and affection.

But most of the rest of them have been with Peter. Moments where she's able to pull the claws in, to not try to beat him to the insult. Sometimes, like a moment ago, it happens out of sheer surprise. Others, like now, there's a more concerted effort to hold her tongue, and she can feel the anxious energy roiling just below her skin, almost physically resisting every second she keeps her guard down.

"A little."

It's... honest. It might immediately sound like a petulant retort, but it is, in fact, a very sincere admission to his last question.

It is hard.

It's hard to let him hold her. It's hard to let tend to her like some child with a scraped knee. He has no idea what she's been through -- how she was beaten to a bloody pulp and left for dead, only to have Thanos pick her back up and augment her so she could take more of a beating.

But even she has her limitations.

The fact that Peter still cares as much as he does never ceases to baffle her. She's never consciously given him any reason to think that there might be something between them. In fact, she's more often gone out of her way to make it clear she's not interested.

Which is... mostly true.

She's still a living, breathing woman. She still feels the same ache of loneliness as anyone else, even if she doesn't show it. She lives in a galaxy that she simultaneously feels guilty for her part in destroying under Thanos's orders and profoundly isolated from. Half of her people were killed in a mass genocide, but she was kidnapped and turned into an efficient, ruthless murderer. She doesn't deserve sympathy. Or compassion. Or any of the other things she sometimes catches in Peter's eye. She should have died with her people. The galaxy would have been better off for it. Now, all she can do is try to make amends.

She slips her arm away from him when she's set down, blowing out a long breath of relief as the tension in her body bleeds away. She's not trying to stand with it or even sit with it. Lying on her back, for the first time, it doesn't throb as much as before.

She has her other knee bent, heel perched like she might be ready to hop up at any second, because even though it sounds like that sigh might have been one of relaxation, she's still lying in a cabin in the middle of a snow storm hoping that they're able to hide from the patrols that were after them. The fact that she can't put any weight on her ankle is only one of her many problems.

And then there's Peter, who she can't seem to decide if he's helping or making her feel even more vulnerable than she already does.

Peter Quill has posed:
It is well established that Drax can be almost painfully literal at times. But so too can Gamora in her own way.

It wasn't really the sort of question that was asking for a genuine, earnest reply. But whether he sought one or not, that's exactly what Peter got. And while it was pretty short - just two little words - it sad a whole lot.

Another person might easily take offense. That his presence is so disliked, so repugnant that the mere thought of being caught and carried by Peter Quill is the worst thing in the world.

But while they might get annoyed with one another - or rather, Gamora might get annoyed with him and he gets exasperated by her - they have been through too much for Peter to really take offense. Because he knows that it really isn't a criticism of him this time. Certainly the green-skinned woman has plenty of those. She makes them known on a regular basis. But this is more about her.

Very few people can truly relate to what another person has gone through. Not in truth. Not in depth. Mantis might be able to get a feel for it, to experience it. If Gamora ever let her. But that would mean letting people in and that isn't the strong suit of the Guardian's den mother. For pretty good reason.

Quill has worked for some pretty sketchy people. He has a great deal of affection for Yondu despite the... complicated nature of their relationship. And while he believes that the man has a pretty good heart underneath it all, he's done a whole lot of questionable things. The Ravagers don't play and you don't ascend to a leadership position among them because you're a big ol' softie.

But despite some of the things that Yondu has done, he can't hope to even be mentioned in the same breath as Thanos. The things that monster has done to the galaxy. Has done to Gamora. Heck, has even done to the Guardians. Peter is not ever likely to forget him simply disintegrating Phyla-Vell as if she was nothing, right before their eyes. He might not give his loyalty easily, but when he does, it's absolute. She was one of them.

And Thanos killed her.

Does Gamora deserve to be punished for her association with the Mad Titan? Does she deserve to be shunned? Some certainly have believed so. Some have certainly tried. But Quill isn't among them. He'll never be among them. Because he knows her.

So he settles her on that bed, on it's rickety frame and less then comfortable looking mattress. And while she might prefer he leave it at that, he can't. He just can't.

Not for the first time he bemoans the fact that they didn't pack more survival gear. Cold weather clothing, a portable heated, anything of that like would be amazing right now. But then the plan wasn't to become stranded on this world. The job was supposed to be a quick in and out. Not an extended escape through a frozen forest.

Live and learn.

What he does do is retrieve the small pack they do have, making sure to lay out anything that might be a little too hard, a little too uncomfortable and set it aside on that table. Then, wadding it up, he slips it beneath her leg, propping it up a little. "Keeping it elevated will help a bit," he says.

Then the door behind them jars hard and he whirls, hands going down to the pistols at his belt. But it's just the wind, that freezing breeze slipping in around the cracks in the ill-fitting door and Quill shivers once more.

Gamora has posed:
THUNK

That door jars, and even as Peter is reaching for his blasters, a glint of metal sails past his ear. Shaped a bit like an arrowhead, Gamora didn't hesitate to slip the throwing knife out of her bracer and send it towards the doorway with a flick of her wrist.

No allies were coming for them. Not yet. Not only wasn't it time, yet, to start really getting concerned, the rest of the Guardians had no way to know where they were. If the patrols couldn't find them, what were the chances that Rocket or any of the others were going to be able to?

So, at least for a while, anyone coming through that doorway intends to do them harm. And if Gamora has anything to say about it, they'll get a blade in their neck before they even have time to process finding their quarry.

The throwing knife lands solidly in the wood of the door, burying itself an inch with that dull thunk.

This is the thing that's so terrifying about Gamora. The cold calculations. The willingness to act on them without remorse.

She hasn't actually hurt Peter. Not in a long time. Of course, she's never fought Peter with the intent to do lasting harm, even when they first met. Apparently, where it comes to some people, her bark is much, much worse than her bite. It's just these little reminders about how efficient she could be that might be a little.. unsettling.

"Agggh!" Gamora groans instead of simply saying 'ow.' She collapses back down into the uncomfortable bed, having twisted her foot from where Peter just neatly perched it on top of that pack. And, apparently convinced they weren't about to be stormed by guards, lets herself close her eyes and grimace into the pain.

Her face is twisted with frustration and anger, jaw clenched. That sound she made is probably as much an expression of that frustration as actual pain, though it's clear there's plenty pain, too.

"I hate the snow. I hate this stupid cabin. A hate this job."

More anger and disappointment filling her voice, making her ball her fists at her sides.

Peter Quill has posed:
Is Peter aware of just how capable Gamora is of hurting him? Of hurting almost anyone really?

He would almost have to be.

He's seen her in action afterall. Many, many times over the years. And even if he hadn't, there is the reputation she carries with her. It is a rare few in all of the galaxy that wouldn't fear running into Gamora in some dark alley when she has reason to be hunting them down. Not if they are not completely insane at least. Or living under a rock.

And yet, it would seem that isn't a concern for Quill. Not something he dreads. It doesn't keep him from squabbling with her from time to time. Doesn't prevent him from poking at her now and then. He might be a little more careful about crossing too many lines with her, at least compared to most people, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been known to push his luck now and then.

Like, for instance, sweeping her off her feet when her leg gave out. Given her occasional reminders to him that she is not some conquest, not some notch on his bedpost, given her general lack of humor about certain things there is always a certain risk in doing anything that she might take amiss.

But that doesn't seem to stop Quill.

Is he insane? Is he suicidal? Well, some people that you could ask would probably emphatically answer yes to either or both of those questions. And then might have some cause to do so.

Still, it seems to be more a matter that he remains confident - for whatever reason - that she wouldn't do that to him. Does he have reason for that faith? He can be reckless, he can be foolhardy, he can be stubborn.

But more often then not there is a method to his madness.

Still, seeing just how fast that knife appeared in her hand, seeing how quickly it was hurled and thunks against the questionable barrier that is the door to their makeshift home for at least the next few hours, Peter gets a rather visible reminder of just how dangerous she can be. Battered, cold and in pain, and she is still just a little quicker then him.

Not that he is at his best either.

Those weapons slowly lower once more, are tucked away in those holsters at his side, that surge of adrenaline keeping the cold at bay for just a little longer. "I know it's pretty unconventional for me, but you're not going to get any argument from me," Quill admits, grimacing a little and then moving to drag one of those chairs over closer to her bedside.

Gamora has posed:
Maybe it's the moments they'd just shared. Maybe it's the way he tended to her without pushing her limits. Maybe it's that he didn't argue with her complaints just for the sake of it or the way he turned to move towards the chair.

Whatever it is that causes Gamora to reach up, she wraps her fingers around Peter's arm to keep him from moving away, but that touch is surprisingly gentle. A request, rather than an order.

"We're both freezing."

She hadn't admitted that before. Neither of them have. They've both just been enduring the cold, trying to be strong.

"I think I saw a thermal blanket."

Her eyes flicker to the supplies Peter had dumped out just a few moments ago. It's little more than just a square of reflective metal all folded up into a handkerchief sized package.

"It should be big enough to cover both of us, if we stay close, and we can try to wait it out until the storm blows over."

And, in case her intention wasn't clear enough, she scoots herself in towards the wall until she's up against it, her ankle still elevated on that empty satchel.

"It's better than one or both of us freezing to death."

Practical as always.

Peter Quill has posed:
Unless the absolute worst happens they are going to be here for the next several hours. Unless they're found and driven out, forced to try and stay one step ahead of their pursuers as it gets darker and darker, colder and colder.

The cabin isn't warm. If they could light the stove it might be tolerable. Drafty, chilly, but tolerable. Without that though, the only thing that the place really has to recommend it is that it keeps the wind at bay. It deeps the cold to a dull throb instead of biting at them.

It's better then nothing. But not by much.

They are both hurt. They are both at something other then their best. And if they are going to escape this situation, they need to get what little rest they can. They need to give there bodies a chance to rest, to heal what can be healed in the limited window they have. And while there were certain lines that Quill wasn't going to cross given their situation, he should have known better.

Gamora is nothing if not practical. Nothing if not pragmatic. On the surface that might be her defining trait. At least until one gets to know her better at least. And as exasperating as Peter can be sometimes, he does know her. Knows her well.

So when she reaches out, to curl fingers around his arm and make that frank and honest assessment of their situation, Quill gives a fractional nod of agreement. Things... aren't looking real good for them right now.

"Small mercies that one of us thought to stow one of them in our pack," he agrees. It was almost definitely her. Quill isn't really a 'prepare for the worst and hope for the best' kind of guy. More of a 'assume everything is going to work out and when it inevitably doesn't, just improvise'.

Turning, he leaves the chair where it is and instead snags that compressed square from the table, unfolding the shiny, metallic sheened blanket before turning back to the bed and draping it over the green-skinned woman. Only then does he take a deep breath. It's going to be a tight fit, but Quill crawls up there beside her, slipping beneath the thermal blanket.

There's no immediate sense of relief. No radiant wave of heat running through him. But it will trap their body heat at least. It will offer slow relief. And maybe, just maybe, they can get a shred of rest.

Gamora has posed:
In the grand hierarchy of people who 'know' Gamora (as opposed to those who simply think they do), Peter Quill is, perhaps, third.

Just because he's cruel and pitiless doesn't mean the man who calls her 'daughter' doesn't know her better than any living soul in the galaxy. He took her when she was young, tried to beat and surgically alter every shred of humanity out of her. He tried to turn her the most lethal assassin in the galaxy and, arguably, succeeded at least in that mission.

Nebula, her sister, spent her life studying Gamora, looking for weaknesses while both of them fought -- often against each other -- for their very survival. Neither of them knew anything akin to rest. Nothing resembling trust. Nothing resembling compassion or mercy.

If either of them saw what was happening here, they would know. They would recognize in an instant that it was so much more than merely being coldly practical. She's sacrificing her personal space to invite him that close. She's making herself vulnerable. She's reaching out to offer something even more than just an olive branch. It's... intimate.

Maybe it's not romantically intimate. At least, that doesn't seem to be the intention. But it's impossible to fit two adults on what's little more than a cot without things getting very... cozy. It's perhaps even worse when it's two injured people who are each trying not to exacerbate their injuries just to avoid freezing to death.

"It's part of my standard emergency medical kit," she says, pragmatically. "It reflects heat, too. Move closer. Your hurt shoulder is hanging off."

Which means that she is officially on her side, pinned between him and the wall, and lifting her head so she can use Peter's shoulder as a.. makeshift pillow. At least it's the one without the bandage.

Deep breath in. Long exhale.

She settles her knee on top of his thigh, though she seems hyper-aware of every point of contact... which, given their position, is a lot of contact. At least she's soft. Well, softer than...

"Just think," she murmurs. "It could be worse. You could be stuck here with Drax."

Peter Quill has posed:
At times, Peter Quill can be an odd mass of contradictions.

There is a part of him that is incredibly insightful, that can see right to the heart of the matter. That can actually read people remarkably well and anticipate just how they will react in any given situation.

It is one of the things that makes him unusually effective as the Guardians defacto 'leader' much of the time. Gamora, Drax and Groot are much more powerful. Rocket has a sort of demented genius about him. Mantis has a natural empathy. But Quill gets people probably better then any of the rest of them. He understands what makes them tick, understands what will make them react. He knows how far he can probably push them and when it's probably best to just go in guns blazing because there's really nothing else that is going to work in a situation.

Most of the time.

Maybe it's because he feels the need to push his luck. Maybe because there is a comfort level that comes from dealing with the same people day after day, being close to them in a way that he just isn't with almost anyone else, but that ability to read the situation doesn't always work quite as well with the rest of the Guardians.

And maybe Gamora least of all. Of all of them, she is the one that normally has the capability to surprise him the most.

But every once in awhile he gets it right.

Most of the time she is the steady one. The one that the rest of them can rely on. She is the team's rock, the team's mother. She looks after them to be sure, but she'll keep them on the straight and narrow too. And isn't afraid to box their ears when it's called for.

So it's not often she's the vulnerable one. even now, even hurt, that gesture isn't missed. Even with that bloody wound, Quill is probably in better shape then her. For the moment at least. But she's making the accomodation for him.

The mention of Drax brings a snort from Quill and with only a brief hesitation, he shifts, pressing closer on the tight fit that is that overblown cot, doing his best so that they both can find a way to be somewhat comfortable - or as close as they can under the circumstances.

He doesn't hate the added heat either, admittedly.

"Hey, I bet Drax is one big hot water bottle. It might not be all bad," he counters. "Though I'm not sure how either of us would fit up here if he was on the mission instead of the other one. If this is a tight fit, imagine trying to make room for Drax," he says with a smirk.

Gamora has posed:
"I'd rather not," Gamora drones, but there's something that almost approaches humor in the lilt of her voice.

Peter certainly has his moments.

A good portion of the time -- maybe most of it -- he's a giant goofball that doesn't take anything seriously, and it can be hard for Gamora to trust him completely. She's never been good at being vulnerable, and when she's constantly waiting for the ridiculous punchline, the crack about how she needs to loosen up, it can be hard for her to let her guard down.

There have been these moments, though, spread through the years they've known each other. Moments when he seemed to understand that she's wound up so tight, ready for an attack from anyone at any time, that giving her a reprieve from the comments and the jokes and the otherwise jovial banter they all share is like creating an oasis for her to rest in... a bubble in time where she can slowly begin to feel safe.

The last time she let herself be this vulnerable with a man, she was five years old. The last time she curled up and fell asleep on her father's chest. Not Thanos. Her real father.

It's such a distant, hazy memory, at this point... like something that happened in a dream. She's not even sure if what she remembers is real.

But settled on his should, she can hear the the beating of Peter's heart, and it takes her back... back to a time well before she was saving the galaxy, before she was forced to beat her sister time and time again in single combat for the right to survive, before she was turned into an assassin, before Thanos ever grabbed her by the arm and drug her away from where he was murdering her parents along with half of the rest of her race.

Back to a time when she was just a girl.

And with every soft exhale, her muscles relax a little more. The tentative, rigid lines of contact soften. Her hand shifts to his chest, tentative at first, though even her fingers gradually start to relax.

"Tell me something about Terra."

There's no question mark at the end, but it's a request. Her voice is soft against the howling of the wind past the cabin. Just enough to carry over it.

Peter Quill has posed:
Just like a stopped clock is right twice a day, Peter Quill does usually find a way to have his moments as well.

In fact, two a day sounds just about right for that as well.

Sometimes he even manages to find a way to have them with Gamora too. To break through that reserve, to worm his way past her defenses, at least for a few minutes at any rate. Though that tends to happen much less often then the twice a day principle that he otherwise seems to operate on.

But then she's not quite like anyone else that he has even encountered. Even growing up amongst the Ravagers and the very diverse set of beings that brought him into contact with she pretty much stands alone.

Still, it's hard not to smile briefly. Just a little. She isn't one to burst out laughing. She's not usually one to show much emotion at all. Unless, maybe it's exasperation with him or one of the other Guardians. They tend to be able to bring that particular emotion out of her almost on queue.

It's rare that he manages to detect even a hint of humor in her, so when he does now the corners of Peter's mouth twitch ever so slightly in satisfaction.

But it's hard for much humor to last. There isn't very much amusing about the situation they find themselves in. Stranded on this freezing, miserable planet. Both of them hurt. Minimal supplies. And a horde of dangerous individuals trying to hunt them down and get their hands on the dangerous artifact that they managed to make off with before everything went to hell.

Still, there is a certain comfort too, especially as that thermal blanket starts to warm, trapping their body heat, and between that, between their long hike to find even this scant cover - and yes, though he might not say it aloud, being curled up with Gamora - it is almost cozy. And Peter can feel that sort of drowsy languidness creeping over him.

"Terra," he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, increasingly sliding shut entirely for longer periods. "The food. The next time we stop back there we definitely need to get you out to try more of the food," he asserts. "Cheeseburgers. Twinkies. We're definitely getting you a twinkie. Man, we really should have stocked some of them away before we took off. I could go for some artificial, sugary, not quite real food goodness right about now."

Gamora has posed:
Gamora lets out a little huff of amused air.

"Artificial, sugary, not quite real food," she echoes in her own soft murmur. "That sounds.. disgusting."

But there's warmth in it, the smile almost audible, like a mother teasing her child for only wanting to eat the sugary cereal.

"No wonder Terrans only live to be fifty."

It was a number that Peter had thrown out, at some point, during one of the crew's many arguments. And apparently it had stuck.

She, of course, had no idea what to predict her own life expectancy to be. The Zen-Whoberi had an average lifespan, of course, but with all of her cybernetic modifications, it was impossible to know whether that was going to help her or hurt her, in the long run. In general, the life expectancy for a bunch of idiots flying through space trying to save the galaxy was a lot shorter than most humanoid races, anyway.

So, to Quill's point, why not eat Twinkies?

Probably because Gamora controls every aspect of what goes into her body. She is in peak physical condition, and she'd sooner be caught dead than eating something 'artificial, sugary, and not quite real food.'

She's not immune to the same effects Quill is feeling, either. The warmth. The way his chest rises and falls under her hand. The way his heart thumps away under her ear. She can't seem to help matching her breathing to his, or starting to give in to the rhythm of his pulse coaxing her towards unconsciousness.

"Maybe we can..."

She yawns, drawing in a deep, deep breath and letting it out in a soft huff that takes even more tension with it.

"...maybe we can go back and get you some. For your birthday."

Her eyes are closed.

"You can listen to your music, if you want. I'll keep an ear out for trouble."

She'd be doing that, regardless.

Peter Quill has posed:
In some ways it isn't the sugar or the artificial goodness that Quill really misses. It's the reminder of home.

For the most part he wouldn't trade away any part of his life. While Yondu and his Ravagers might have lacked a certain something as far as parental figures go, the opportunities he has had because they took him have been nothing short of astounding.

Flying through the stars? The adventures? The things he has seen, the things he has done? None of that would have been possible if he had grown up, just another midwestern kid on one backwater planet in some unimportant corner of the galaxy.

That's something that is always a little hard to come to terms with. The fact that the worst single moment of his life, of being in that hospital room as his mother's life slipped away led to him being here, living the life he gets to live, being Star-Lord, well, that's not always easy to reconcile.

Which is why those little reminders of home matter. The stupid little troll doll. The horribly creased and faded postcard that he keeps on the Milano.

And that music.

Nothing reminds him more of his mother then that music. He might seem oddly - even foolishly - attached to his music sometimes, but there is a reason for that. A method to his madness, no matter what anyone else thinks.

Besides, as much as the other Guardians might deny it, his love for music has rubbed of on them. Even Gamora. Just a little.

So that gentle chiding about Twinkies? It draws another soft snort from him and he doesn't even think about that earlier caution, squirming a little closer to her.

"Who wants to live for ever anyway?"

A debatable view point to be sure, one that many would disagree with. But possibly a healthy attitude given what they do. It isn't exactly geared towards a long, healthy life afterall. As their present task is doing an excellent job of proving.

"Music," he agrees, that weariness in his voice thicker now, more evident. "Still gonna get you to dance one of these days."

That might be Peter Quill's most daunting mission yet.

Gamora has posed:
'Still gonna get you to dance one of these days.'

"Remind me to check you for a head injury when we get up again."

More humor? It's delivered so dryly that, if Peter didn't know her as well as he did, it might almost be mistaken for sincere worry that he's actually suffered brain damage. The fact is, though, that even though she has her moments, she's not usually quite as literal as Drax.

She doesn't have the same sort of tangible things to remind her of happy days. The only thing she has left to remember her parents by is her reflection in the mirror, not that she spend much time dwelling on that. She'd given up on those sentimental notions a long, long time ago.

Or... well... she claimed she had. They still came out, from time to time, like when she embraced Nebula and called her sister. Or, yes, sometimes even when she heard Peter's music. Because most of her happy memories, most of the things she would want to remember, have happened since she found Peter on Xandar. When she hears the word 'family,' it isn't Zen-Whoberi that her mind goes to first. It's the Milano.

So maybe it's not as surprising as it could be that when Peter scooted closer a few seconds go, she didn't so much as flinch. Instead, she shifted just a little to adjust, to accommodate, her hand slipping absently to just below the wound on his opposite shoulder. Her leg draped a little more across his. Her nose pressed a little closer to the side of his neck.

Here, warm under the blanket, dozing and talking, she doesn't see him as a threat. They're just two people who care about each other. Surviving.

"I... like that one song..."

She likes more than one, but... baby steps.

"...it goes... surrender... surrender..."

Of course that's the one she likes.

Let's face it. It was either going to be that or 'Hit Me With Your Best Shot.'

Peter Quill has posed:
They are such a diverse bunch, such an eclectic bunch. They shouldn't really have anything in common. Nothing to keep them together, at least not after they dealt with the basic circumstances that brought them together at any rate. Certainly not enough to keep them together for more then a few weeks, until their respective interests pulled them apart once again. Set them back on their own paths.

And here they are, several years later. Still together. Here they are, calling the Milano of all places home. Here they are, their own unique, dysfunctional little family.

And if you cornered Peter, he would probably admit that he wouldn't have it any other way. The others would probably do the same as well, possibly equally grudging.

Sometimes it is hard to see it. When they've been confined to their ship for too long. When they have had a job go so very wrong. When they are at each other's throats and the bickering is on the verge from crossing from amusing to snide.

Then there are times like this.

Times when the little barriers that they have put up to protect themselves from a pretty unforgiving universe come down. Even just a little. Those moments when they don't have to be quite so self-conscious about the whole thing.

They're rare. But pretty remarkable.

While he might be drowsy, while his comment might have been absent, the sort of thing that slips out when the mind can finally quiet itself, when he is on the verge of slipping into slumber, Gamora's response to it is certainly expected and again a faint smile curves over Peter's expression.

What's less expected is even that small concession that she might - might - like any of his music. He has caught her, now and then, murmuring lyrics to songs, to letting her fingers twitch in time to his music. He knows very well that she isn't quite as opposed to it as she might seem.

But it is still unexpected to hear her admit it.

"Cheap Trick," he murmurs. "It's a quality song."

Gamora has posed:
She may admit to liking one of his songs -- and yes, there are plenty of others that she sings along with when she thinks no one is watching. But she'll never admit that she keeps rambling -- keeps trying to breathe life into a dying conversation, even though that isn't really one of her best skills -- because, no matter what happens when they wake up, the warmth will be gone.

The warmth that has nothing to do with the blanket or body heat.

After a rest, whether they're awoken by the storm quieting or the sounds of approaching patrols, all the walls will be back up, and they'll be back to bickering like siblings again.

They'll be back to fighting for their lives again.

And this moment, this oasis in time where they've found the elusive, perfect combination of tired, vulnerable, safe, and sincere, will be gone.

"It's not a trick," she murmurs. "I agree. It's a good song."

Of course, there's also a chance that, sometimes, she says stuff like that just to screw with him. Because, let's face it. It's more fun if he's never really sure when she's being overly literal and when she's not.

It's a little harder to get away with when he can feel her cheek tighten into a smile, though.

Peter Quill has posed:
Really, he should just succumb and let that wave of unconsciousness wash over him. Wash over them. There really is no way of telling just how long they are going to have to rest. So long as it is storming outside there is always the possibility that this little shack will be missed. That it will remain a little haven. But once the snowstorm stops? Any sort of coordinated search is likely to find this place.

And then?

Well then they will need to start running again or settle in for a pretty serious fight.. Either way, they are going to need to be well rested when that moment comes. Or at least as well rested as they can be. That possibility feels a lot more likely right now, warm and cuddled up with her. Though given the construction of the bed, the shoddy mattress, well, we'll see if his back feels the same way in a couple of hours.

But the biggest deterrent to letting the blanket of slumber descend? He's well aware that when they wake up again that warmth will be gone.

This isn't their first moment. The first time when it felt like Gamora was warming to him some, that some of those feelings he keeps locked away might not be so ludacrus. That maybe there really is an unspoken thing between them. Those moments always end though.

So Peter can't be blamed for wanting to keep this one going, just a little bit longer.

There is also the temptation to roll over a little - not enough to disturb her, he rather likes her head nestled against his shoulder and her hand on his chest - but just enough to peek and see if she's smiling.

"It's the name of the group. The people who sing it. Cheap Trick," he says. Is he being baited? He doesn't know. But he can't help himself.

"Maybe I should be getting those headphones and putting them on you. They're not quite lullabies, but I bet they'd work just as well at the moment."

Gamora has posed:
He doesn't have to look for a smile.

There's a laugh, soft and almost... feminine, at least by Gamora standards, when he explains that it's the name of the band. Little more than a huff of air that send a brief quake through her body, a dip of her head to hide her smile even more that could almost be mistaken as a nuzzle.

"That was a... cheap... trick," she enunciates.

So, humor isn't really her first language. But it almost comes across as an attempt to be... playful? It's warm, at least, and borderline affectionate. It's not her normal, biting remarks that are carefully chosen to walk the line between keeping everyone at arm's length and outright offensive.

She's relatively certain that, for all the times she's called him an idiot, Peter doesn't actually believe she thinks that. She'd be an even bigger idiot for following him around, if she did.

"I... looked it up," she admits.

But then he offers to get headphones, and she suddenly has a grip on his jacket.

"Don't go," comes out first. Though, after a moment of realizing how that sounds, she adds, "you'll let out all the heat."

There's another pause, her grip on him loosening.

"Besides, I can't block out that much sound. I have to be able to hear."

Peter Quill has posed:
He had a feeling of course. But it's one of those things. It's almost Pavlovian by now. One of his new, adopted family will do or say something and he can't help but feel the need to clarify some point about his homeworld.

Even if it hasn't really been home since he was eight years old.

Still, when he hears that little huff of laugh, Peter most definitely feels a surge of warmth. It is not often that Gamora lets this side of herself show, even a little. He knows it doesn't come naturally to her, but every once in awhile her and the others get a glimpse of it.

He lets one eye crack open once more, rolling his head a little so he can see her at least, amusement flashing across his features in turn at her little - and unexpected - play on words. But even more for the admission that she looked it up. For most people that wouldn't seem like much of an admission. People look up songs, artists all the time.

But Gamora rarely spends time on anything that doesn't matter. Matter to her or to the bigger picture. Which kinda suggests that somewhere, no matter how buried, Peter's love for music has rubbed off just enough to leave her with a fondness for it as well.

And he can't help but appreciate that a little more.

It's tempting, then, to start bantering with her once more. But Peter avoids that temptation right now, instead immediately stilling when she grabs his jacket, to remain nestled close to her.

"You make a pretty good point. We definitely don't want to lose any heat," he agrees.

He also, most definitely, doesn't want to leave her side either, so that's another good reason, even if it goes unspoken.

He doesn't even chide her, or urge her to loosen up when she adds in the bit about needing to hear anyone approaching. While Peter might chide her often enough, encourage her to lighten up a little, doing so when they're in this dire of circumstances was never really what he had in mind.

"Okay," he agrees quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Gamora has posed:
I'm not going anywhere.

Tension bleeds back out out of her again as soon as he agrees not to disturb the fragile little cocoon of warmth they've managed to create. It may be decent at trapping body heat (eventually), but it's not a heavy blanket. Every little shift threatens to expel more of the warmth they've trapped.

But this delicate truce they've managed is just as fragile. They both know it. And maybe that's an even bigger relief.

Or, it would be, if she wasn't out of things to say. She's out of excuses to talk. Out of inane, nonsensical conversation starters like 'tell me about Terra' or 'tell me about music,' like she's some ridiculous woman who just wants to hear him talk. Like there was some desire to reach for something more, to seize this fleeting moment to make some kind of...

...what? Some kind of connection? To try and touch whatever unspoken thing she always denied was there?

It's stupid. What she's doing is stupid.

She's cold. She's tired. She aches. Her ankle is throbbing. And Peter's... there. That's all it is. She doesn't like his horrible music. She doesn't like his stupid jokes. She doesn't like his giant shoulder or his chest or his scent...

She should never have said anything.

That self-flagellation seems to flash across her expression even when she tears her gaze away from his face, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

"We should sleep," she mutters, letting her own eyes slip closed.

Peter Quill has posed:
It's like he can see that moment when all that guardedness flood back into her, when she shuts herself down again and wraps herself in those walls that seal her off from the rest of the galaxy.

That seal her off from him.

They had a moment, but that is clearly coming to an end. And maybe that's understandable. What she's saying might be an excuse, just a reason to put a stop to that bond between them, to not give it a chance to flourish, not to let it bloom into that unspoken thing that Peter seems to feel exists between them. Despite all of the flat denials.

It is, however, a pretty good reason. They do need rest. They do need to give their bodies a chance to recover while they can. As always, her words are eminently practical of course.

But that doesn't mean that Peter exactly wants to accept them. That it doesn't stir up a little of that rebellious nature of his that can get him - and the rest of the Guardians - into trouble now and then. That tendency to push his luck, even when he knows better. Even when it is a horrible time to do so.

And this is definitely a horrible time to do so. It could go so wrong, even if they were safe and sound back on the MIlano, in familiar surroundings. Hell, it has gone wrong then.

So here, in this frozen wasteland? Hunted and injured and exhausted? Yeah, not a good idea.

But her hand is still on his chest, that grip not yet in retreat like the rest of her and Peter finally does what he's wanted to do since it first landed there. His own slips up, covers hers, pressing it there, holding it in place. Only as long as she'll let him of course. She's still her and he's still him. But even still.

"One of these days Gamora..." he murmurs.

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't have to. He's not going to stop trying to break down those walls. Because he's pretty sure when he finally manages, it is going to be pretty freakin' amazing.

Gamora has posed:
All they seem to have is bad timing.

Like Ronan the Accuser and a fleet of Ravagers storming Knowhere all at once.

Like lying in a frigid 'bed' in a deserted cabin in the middle of a snow storm.

But maybe that's for the best. Maybe that's fate's way of telling Gamora she's right to keep her defenses up. Or maybe it's just because she's too afraid to let them down when it might actually have a chance to become something.

That hand, though. As soon as it settles over hers, her arm stiffens and her breath catches. Her fingers twitch, just a little, but don't pull away. Seconds tick by before she draws in a slow breath.

She allows that time, a moment that stretches into infinity and yet lasts only a couple of seconds. One finger lifts to nudge the inside of his, then another, like some kind of timid exploration or forbidden contact -- like even that simple, affectionate touch was more intimate than anything she'd ever allowed herself.

'One of these days Gamora...'

The words are a promise and a threat all rolled into one. A beginning and an end. A danger to everything she holds dear. No matter what she keeps locked away where she tries never to show him, they don't make any sense together. She's still her and he's still him.

But even still...

One, slender green finger hooks over his thumb, curling as if to cling to him...

... and then she draws her hand away, sliding it closer to her face.

"Not today," she whispers, so quietly it might not even have happened.

Because one thing she's certain of is that if she ever does let herself fall in love with Peter Quill, she'll never be the same.