She never really awakens. She always finds herself in a warped plane between real and fake before she actually finds herself on the floor (because she’ll always be on the steel floor of his ship, even after all this time).
Slowly, she unfurls herself. She lays on her side, and it hurts, numb against the hard surface. A dagger is a firm presence in her fist, jammed between her legs from her previously fetal position.
She has a bunk now, but she’ll still find herself thrown to the ground. Gamora wipes the cold sweat off her brow and comes to a deceptively unwavering stand, though her thoughts betray her and the dread she feels in her center threatens to overtake her one day. There’s something missing and she’s not quite sure what. What she knows is that he could find her, find them. It’s a matter of time.
She wills herself to remain still, but her body moves against her. Step after silent, lethal step, she watches herself progress like a phantom through the halls, only coming to a halt before the doorway of quarters she does not belong near. She’s a pale shadow in the dark, and completely unprovoked, her mind machinations a thousand methods to kill Rocket in his unsuspecting sleep.
She feels residual guilt spike as an afterthought, but knows herself well enough not to flinch. He could be her prey, she imagines. But he isn’t. His frame is somewhat sprawled atop his strange makeshift nest of sheets and blankets, chest bare. Even with her keen eyesight she can just barely make out the hint of screws gleaming under his fur, the outline of scars.
At some point she is in the middle of his room with the panel shutting behind her. She bites her lip.
She can make out the outline of a gun beside him which, within an instant, is very suddenly raised up at her face. As expected, it lines up steadily between her eyes though he blinks blearily, squinting at the figure before him. Slowly, the weapon is lowered and he allows his head to thump back against his pillow. Rocket doesn’t even bother to open his mouth for once, seemingly too tired to think. His arm simply falls to the side in a quiet invitation he shouldn’t extend.
She takes it anyway, because she could never say she didn’t listen when she shouldn’t have.
Gamora climbs into a bed that smells warm like him, and in that moment, her heart beats only to pump blood. Curls up beside him and that means she chooses to rest her head on his chest, wedging herself into the crook of his arm. His breathing is slow and natural when he absently rakes his claws through her hair, grazing her scalp. He does this for eleven seconds before his paw falls limp. She finally blinks.
Fur tickles the side of her nose where her cheek rests against him and she presses closer when she knows he’s back asleep. She can make out the rest of a short figure, semi-obscured beneath a sheet. She can think about how, if she were to reach for her dagger, she would immediately feel the cool muzzle of a pistol against her temple. It’s comforting.
She doesn’t move out of fear of waking him even as she longs to rake her fingers through the pelt of his stomach. The thoughts do not relent. How simple might it be to smother him? To hurt him. She could very well hurt him, and she knows he’s aware.
They trust each other to not trust each other and maybe that’s why this works. Maybe, she can’t cherrypick a reason why she chose him. But maybe she just does, and that scares her.
She breathes him in, and stupid chemicals release in her brain that make her feel tender when she thought she wasn’t capable. In that moment, Rocket isn’t anything or anybody but himself. And in that moment, she doesn’t think she’s hated anyone more.