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A hand pushes her away, she falls to the ground and turns just as the blade pierces through him.
Time slows down.
Peter’s eyes widen, pupils contracting and eyebrows rising, while his mouth opens in a strangled gasp. His knees buckle under him and hit the cold metal floor, quickly followed by the clanging blasters. Shaking hands rise to the dagger in his chest, and Gamora can barely register the folly of his intentions as he grasps the hilt and pulls before collapsing sideways.
“Peter!” The scream rips from her and she is kneeling beside him, hands already crimson as they push against the wound.
The battle is a blur around her, sound and sight smudge and fade. There is only Peter, his blood, gushing impossibly copious, soaking his garments and seeping through her fingers, warm and thick and ominous– She swallows the bile rising in her throat, pushing dreadful thoughts down with it and concentrating on her frantic efforts to stem the flow.
Drax enters her field of vision, grabbing Peter to get him inside the ship, and she jogs along, hands never leaving his chest. They set him down on the infirmary bunk, while in the background she registers Rocket punching commands into the console as they take off, before activating the automatic pilot and jumping off the seat to reach them.
The grimace on his face is all the communication they need. He grabs a medical scanner and waits for Gamora to remove her hands. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then releases her hold and blood blotches the device, causing Rocket to snarl. Their gazes cross, silently determining the course of action, before Rocket turns to the surgical tools and Gamora lightly strokes Peter’s cheek.
“Peter,” she murmurs. “We need to operate.”
His eyes flutter open with some difficulty, focusing on hers. He relaxes ever so slightly and emits a low hum of agreement.
She nods, biting back the fear and searching for her determination. In the periphery of her vision, she sees Rocket ready for the procedure and releases a long exhale. Her hands move to Peter’s collar, grabbing the shirt and tearing it to expose the wound.
“Could’ve jus’ asked nicely,” he jokes, voice feeble and words slurred. His eyes are closed again, the weakest smile plays on his lips and Gamora feels a lump in her throat, burning and suffocating like never before.
“Save your breath, you reckless idiot,” Rocket rebukes, then motions for Mantis. The touch of a finger, and Peter is asleep.
Something heavy is resting on his side. Something warm and soft, surrounded by a featherlike halo. He wants to touch it, to figure out what it is, but his right arm is trapped under it and the left one is lead, like his whole body. He feels the entity stir and, with some effort, decides to open his eyes. He finds himself staring at a dim ceiling, the whole room shrouded in shadows. Slowly, he turns his head, recognizing more and more of the ship’s infirmary, eyes finally reaching the being at his side.
Gamora’s dark hair covers most of her face and arms, as she sleeps holding his hand between hers. She must have pulled a chair up to his bed and collapsed from the exhaustion, he considers, wondering how long she has been waiting there.
“Hey,” he calls. His voice is hoarse and so low he thinks she might not hear, but she jolts upright.
Her eyes search the room and come to rest on his. It takes her a moment before registering that he is awake, then her arms are around him and her face is buried in his neck. A sigh of relief escapes her and Peter fights against the weakness to bring a hand to caress her hair.
When she releases him, he can swear her cheeks are a shade darker than usual.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m alright,” Peter answers automatically, trying to push himself onto his elbows. A wince and Gamora is already helping him up, carefully supporting him as he adjusts to rest his back against the headboard. Her hands trail from his shoulders, fingers delicately skimming over his bare chest to end up hovering on the bandage.
“You lost a lot of blood,” she whispers, eyes glued to the wound before rising to meet his gaze. There is something quivering in them, starbright despite the surrounding penumbra, and the whole universe stops for a second.
“I’m alright,” he finally repeats when he catches his breath. This time it is barely a murmur, and yet infinitely more truthful, for how can he feel any pain when she looks at him like that? Like she cannot believe her luck at him being alive and safe, because stars know what she would have done if he were not…
She nods quietly, hand resting on his chest before she realizes and hastily removes it.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “And sorry about your shirt.”
He chuckles, stopping quickly as his body aches reproachingly. “You can rip off my clothes any time,” he smirks.
She looks away and he briefly wonders if he has offended her, until she speaks. “You did something really stupid, Peter.”
His mind searches for a few moments before realizing she is referring to pushing her out of the dagger’s trajectory. “It’s not the first time,” he shrugs.
“You should have learnt, then.”
“Told you I don’t learn.”
Gamora inhales deeply, exasperated at his unwillingness to understand, opening her mouth to find a way to explain, only to close it again. She swallows, gathering the strength to be vulnerable. “I don’t want to lose you,” she manages to whisper.
Peter’s gaze softens, still holding all of its determination, and his hand finds hers. “Neither do I.”
Her eyes fall on their entwining fingers, then rise to his, clear and bright and certain with emotion. His left hand reaches her cheek, caressing it lightly as her eyelids flutter shut and she lets her forehead rest against his.
“Gamora, I’ll always choose you.”
There is a finality in his statement, intense and true. There is a sincerity in his words, in the absolute belief and devotion beyond them. There is a pull to him, stronger than a that of blackhole, and she inches dangerously closer, enough to feel his breath, sweet and soft on her skin. Her hands rise to the back of his neck, while his slip into her hair, and finally she abandons all defenses, leaning in until their lips touch, tender, reverent, longing.
The universe ignites with passion, and Peter would bleed a thousand seas for the moment never to end.