zenwhoberi | open post;

[to say that she'd been angry when she'd come to, with her back against metal and pain all over, would be an understatement; she'd been furious. she'd wasted no time stalking toward rocket's direction, a whole arsenal of threats, verbal and otherwise, at hand and ready to be deployed. fortunately for him, though, they'd picked up peter (and yondu's body) on the scanners a moment later, and all thoughts of otherwise had been effectively abandoned.

but that doesn't mean she's forgotten.

when she hears rocket's voice at the door, she automatically bristles. a hand tightly grips the edge of the bed where she's sitting, but that's as far as it gets; after everything, after a week that has practically felt like a year, she's exhausted beyond belief in a way that her body mods can't compensate for, and she honestly doesn't have anything else in her.

a beat passes. she lets out a breath, then calls:]

It's unlocked. [maybe her voice is on the cold side, but it's an acceptance of his unspoken invitation. she's receptive to hearing whatever he has to say.]

[The door opens and Rocket peers inside, gauging the tension in the room before deciding that regardless of how high the tempers are going to flare, it has to be done, and it should probably be done before Gamora corners him about it. He doesn't do so well with being cornered.

And because of that, he doesn't shut the door behind him. Privacy is great and all, but no idiot is going to lock themselves in a room with the deadliest woman in the galaxy when they've done something to perturb her.]

Look, I, uh... I figured I owed you an explanation for what I did back there.

[Not an apology. He knows why he did it and he would do it again a thousand times over. He's not sorry, and therein is going to lie the conflict. At best, maybe Gamora will understand. At worst... She might rip his tail off and stuff it down his throat. Depends, honestly.]

[in some ways, she thinks, she and rocket may understand each other better than anyone else here. there's a certain ugliness they know that the others don't, the kind that comes with being made into something against one's will. the kind that breeds a certain pragmatism and a willingness to exercise it, no matter how dirty hands may become in the process.

gamora, though, isn't willing to bet more lives than she has to. that's the difference.

an explanation, he says, as if this is something simple, and her eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly when they land on him. for now, she otherwise doesn't move, letting the silence fester between them as she considers. it's a whole minute, maybe more, before she speaks again.]

For not telling me, or for shooting me? [her tone is measured, even, like she's simply recounting fact — only there's an edge to it, too. a subtle, dangerous edge.] Or for leaving one of our own to die on an exploding planet?

[Rocket recoils slightly, as if slapped, but it only takes a second before he's on the defensive.] For shooting you, actually. That was a dick move, but I knew I wasn't gonna be able to talk you down.

[He bares his teeth, hoping to bite back the raw emotion.] I did it 'cause he asked me to. I wasn't gonna leave him or Quill, but we didn't have a choice. Someone had to make the call.

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