the jump in her heart settles back into something even within moments, the blade in her hand is still, steady, and her breath doesn't change, but even so, what she's shown this woman is too much. if there's a knife waiting behind her back, then gamora deserves to be its target for being sloppy enough to allow someone to sneak up on her.
(in the early days, she'd considered the utility of remaining, had feared what it might mean for her edges to become dulled, even if she couldn't deny softness being a welcome feeling. later, she'd grown accustomed to letting her guard down in pieces, until it'd been nothing at all to wake up next to another person, limbs entwined, even so much as a dagger far out of reach.
a voice at the back of her mind, one that she hates, wonders if that had been a mistake.)
but there's no weapon — at least, not one that gamora can detect through her ocular implants in the dim light; there are only raised hands from the woman with flowers in her braids, accompanied by a smile. an intentional gesture.
it's one she follows in turn, making sure that when she pockets her knife, she does so visibly.]
No.
[that's said quietly, with a slight shake of her head. quietly, and far from unkindly. after a beat, she adds as an invitation, shifting over to make more room if the woman wishes to sit:]
no subject
the jump in her heart settles back into something even within moments, the blade in her hand is still, steady, and her breath doesn't change, but even so, what she's shown this woman is too much. if there's a knife waiting behind her back, then gamora deserves to be its target for being sloppy enough to allow someone to sneak up on her.
(in the early days, she'd considered the utility of remaining, had feared what it might mean for her edges to become dulled, even if she couldn't deny softness being a welcome feeling. later, she'd grown accustomed to letting her guard down in pieces, until it'd been nothing at all to wake up next to another person, limbs entwined, even so much as a dagger far out of reach.
a voice at the back of her mind, one that she hates, wonders if that had been a mistake.)
but there's no weapon — at least, not one that gamora can detect through her ocular implants in the dim light; there are only raised hands from the woman with flowers in her braids, accompanied by a smile. an intentional gesture.
it's one she follows in turn, making sure that when she pockets her knife, she does so visibly.]
No.
[that's said quietly, with a slight shake of her head. quietly, and far from unkindly. after a beat, she adds as an invitation, shifting over to make more room if the woman wishes to sit:]
It seems to be going around.