"You know," Peter says meditatively, "I'm pretty sure I can turn this gun into a bomb".

"Yes? Can we throw it?"

Usually Gamora adheres by the standard operation procedure of never listening to Peter in the field, but right now she's running numbers in her head - 20% blood loss, hypovolemic shock imminent, curse Terrans and their delicate systems - and anything that keeps him cognizant is good with her. They're pinned down between rocks on some who-knows-where, Milano is too far away, and she's going to run out of plasma charges in her stolen rifle soon. They're, in short, fucked, and meanwhile Peter is contemplating bombs.

"No throwing, no. But I was thinking I could lure them there and then... detonate it... with extreme prejudice."

"While we're in the same place," she says flatly, and reminds herself that shaking him until his teeth rattle will accelerate the bleeding.

"Well, while I am in the same place. And you can get away meanwhile! It's a 100% complete plan, aren't you proud of me?"

"Given the part where you get blown up into tiny little bits, no, not especially, Quill."

"Oh come on. Heroic death! Noble martyrdom! I bet Drax will write me a bitchin' eulogy, and Yondu will disown me in disgust, and the Galaxy as a whole will mourn me and name babies after me."

Gamora grits her teeth, shoots some more; the other side has quietened down now, cowed by her fire for a moment. It's not like they have to be in a hurry, ridiculous plans or no.

"Quill, I don't know who told you that suicidal streaks are attractive, but they lied to you like Rocket on a bender."

There are shifting sounds behind her, the whisper of leather on rock, muted pained hissing. She fires three more shots, risks turning away and going to him.

Peter looks up at her, face ashen and pupils blown, and says quietly, not a trace of humor left: "Gamora, I don't want to die. But I don't - I can't - you shouldn't, not here. Isn't it..."

Gamora lays the rifle down by her hand, kneels in front of him, takes his face in her hands - blood loss at 31% percent - hates him just a little bit. She asks, "Peter, who are we?"

"Guardians... of the Galaxy," not a question, but not a trace of smile too, and that's how she knows he's dying, and has to keep it out of her voice, her fingers.

"Right. Right. Not just you, not just me, not even just five of us, but - this means team, okay? That's what the whole thing was about? If you die, we all become less. Do you understand?"

"But..."

"No buts. I can't believe I have to explain this to you. We're together in this, all of us, and this means I'm going to keep our cover and you're going to sit here and not die, and the other three are going to get us out of it sooner or later, and that's the end of it. No plans with bombs."

Peter looks back at her, confused and way too damn pale, and then exhales long and sweet. "And nobody dies? Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay then."

She kisses his forehead, lightly, picks up her weapon and goes back to her post. Behind her, Peter quietly hums.