[ ignorant of the wheels turning in his head, she finds herself (once again) bewitched by the frenetic pace at which peter races through another fractal of terran culture. this one seems altogether less likely than all the others. then again, it's meant to come from a story. and although he tells it artlessly, she decides already that she likes his telling best.
(not that she'll inform him of that preference. never.)
gamora watches him while he talks. she reads every shrug and squint -- looking for truth, or maybe a glimmer of nostalgia. his, of course. she's got so little of her own; she rather likes piggybacking on his better memories.
but then he gets ridiculous again. and with a growling sigh, she asks: ] I'm the same height I've always been. Aren't I?
[ so, no, obviously -- she's not eaten anything that said 'shrink me'. but maybe she's had some currant scones with blackberry jam. they were delicious. ]
no subject
(not that she'll inform him of that preference. never.)
gamora watches him while he talks. she reads every shrug and squint -- looking for truth, or maybe a glimmer of nostalgia. his, of course. she's got so little of her own; she rather likes piggybacking on his better memories.
but then he gets ridiculous again. and with a growling sigh, she asks: ] I'm the same height I've always been. Aren't I?
[ so, no, obviously -- she's not eaten anything that said 'shrink me'. but maybe she's had some currant scones with blackberry jam. they were delicious. ]