Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gamora wakes before him -- Not just today, but routinely.

Peter sort of knew that already, from living in close quarters with her on the Milano, but actually living in, well, quarters with her makes it all the more apparent. It’s partly the fact that her body needs less rest than his does, maybe from her mods, or maybe just from her physiology. But the other part, he knows, is the dreams she has nearly every night, the scars that Thanos has left in her mind. He’s starting to have even more sympathy for that than usual, given the way his own sleep’s been going recently.

Still, there’s something especially intimate about waking each morning to find her quietly going about her routine in the space that they share.

Today, she’s sitting in front of the vanity mirror she recently purchased for their room, a towel wrapped around her body and her hair wet from the shower. He can smell the mild, floral scent of the foamy conditioner that she uses, and his gaze catches on the repetitive motion of her combing her hair. As he watches, she pulls most of it over her right shoulder, keeping a small section on her left.

Peter sits up, stretching and yawning, which causes his reflection to catch her attention.

“Good morning,” she breathes.

“Morning,” he echoes, stretching both arms above his head and then shaking his upper body, as though he might be able to physically brush off the sleep. “What’cha doing?”

This time she does turn, looking at him over her shoulder and arching an eyebrow. “Getting ready. What did you think I was doing?”

He shrugs, moving to sit at the foot of the bed, where he’s basically close enough to touch her. He doesn’t, though -- except to lean in and very lightly kiss her lips -- because he’d rather watch this process than interrupt it.

“Getting ready,” he echoes, grinning. “Just--never seen you do it before. At least not--like this.” Not this intimately, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

Another comfortable silence falls after that, and he watches as she pulls the larger section of her hair up into a bun with a series of intricate twists. That just leaves the the smaller number of loose locks now curling a bit as they dry over the bare skin of her shoulder. Running her fingers through the hair a few times, she sections it again, this time into precise thirds.

“Oh,” breathes Peter, the pieces beginning to come together for him. “Is that how you do the little braidy thing?”

She snorts softly. “Yes, I am doing my ‘little braidy thing.’” She takes two of the segments and crosses them over, then pulls the third through.

“I didn’t realize you redid that,” says Peter, his gaze drawn to the intricate way her fingers are moving -- with all the grace and precision that she uses in combat, only so much softer here.

“What, you thought it was permanent?” she asks, looking vaguely amused.

“Well--” He considers this, then shrugs helplessly. Hair is really not a thing he understands, beyond his own. “Yeah?”

Gamora shakes her head affectionately. “If I never redid it, it would be a mess.”

“But you have it all the time, exactly the same…” He pauses as she finishes the braid and ties it off with a small, stretchy band. Then she selects a thin yellow ribbon from her growing collection of accessories on the vanity, and expertly weaves it through. That detail strikes Peter, and he shakes his head. “Except for that. The--I dunno, decorations you put in it?”

“Ornaments,” she corrects, tying the ribbon into a small bow at the base of the braid.

“Ornaments,” he repeats, feeling the shape of the word on his tongue and smiling. “Do they mean anything?”

Gamora looks a bit taken aback by the question, though not, he thinks, in a bad way. “Yes. It has significance to my people. The ornaments reflect me, as an individual. The braid is the sign of a warrior.”

Peter feels his smile growing wider, warmer, at that knowledge. “Which you are. An awesome one.”

The corners of her lips twitch, but she doesn’t quite return his smile yet. “It’s--not that simple. On my homeworld, it was a role you were born into, or not. I wasn’t.”

“But?” he prompts, thinking that there must be more to this story, because obviously she’s wearing this sign of a warrior now.

“But--” She pauses again, her expression heavier now, more vulnerable, and he watches her swallow before speaking. “Warriors had an important place in society on my homeworld. Now I am the last of my kind. And I decided that if Thanos was going to mold me into a fighter, then perhaps I could use that connection to my heritage, for my own strength and survival.”

“That’s beautiful,” says Peter, reaching out to rest his hand on her knee, something twisting inside of his own chest.

She doesn’t shake him off, but she does drop her gaze away from his, down to the place where he’s touching her. “Is it? Sometimes I wonder whether it’s right to connect the legacy of my people to the horrors of what Thanos made me do.”

“Of course it’s right,” he says softly, absolutely genuine. “It’s not about what Thanos did to you. It’s about the fact that you used the strength of your culture to hold on to a part of yourself.”

She nods, her expression almost shy. “I told myself that I would let him train me, that I would become the best so one day I could use those skills to gain my freedom. And to stop him from doing the same to others.”

“And that’s your legacy,” says Peter, shifting off the bed so that he’s kneeling in front of her, finding and meeting her eyes despite the fact that she’s looking down. He runs his hands lightly down her arms, lacing their fingers. “That’s your people’s legacy. The fact that you escaped. That now you’re using that strength to do good.”

“With your help,” says Gamora, her tone warm now as she squeezes his hands. “For which I am grateful.”

Peter smiles up at her again, feeling his own face flush now as he’s reminded of the full significance she ascribes to their relationship, how long and how badly he’s wanted to matter in this way. “It’s an honor. Really.”

“And now we are both saps,” says Gamora, but lightly. She stands gracefully, hauling him up with her in the process.

“Happily,” says Peter, pressing a light kiss to her forehead and deciding that it’s time to start the rest of the day.