Work Text:
Gamora's almost panting by the time she steps back to take it all in, finally satisfied with her work.
She can't help but marvel at the bits of dried paint on her hands.
A patch of sky blue near the base of her thumb, a few more collected at the ends of her fingers, flecks of it thrown across her knuckles, smudges of the color lining the heel of her hand.
A soft and stubborn streak of orange clings to the edge of her fingernail, running down and just past the line of where base meets skin.
Her other hand is much the same, barring the beginnings of a palm print- the whole side, really, pinky included- from when she had rested her hand against still drying paint while she did the details.
She had noticed some of the paint transferring when she moved onto other areas, leaving smears and presses of colors overlapping where they shouldn't, but she didn't bother fixing them, or even trying to prevent them.
She liked the marks. The small mistakes scattered here and there.
They made it look alive.
She wasn't sure how long Peter was watching, standing quietly at the doorway, waiting for her to take a break rather than interrupt.
“I didn't know you could do that,” he says from behind her. His voice is subdued in a soothing way, a resonating warmth that's laced with affection and something that's all him.
I didn't know I could either, she wants to say.
“When I was young,” she says instead, a soft press at her lips, spilling memories. It was a hazy sort of peacefulness, something that felt like becoming.
She's painted the walls with soft blue skies, tall terran sunflowers filling the space, scattered among leaves and flowers from her home planet, bright things she didn't have names for spilling from the vines, wound between stems and petals bursting with life.
All the while slivers of stray paint peeked out from mistakes she hadn't corrected, scrapes and slashes left behind from stained hands, blue over yellow, bold swipes of purple crossing the border between green and maroon.
It wasn't until she got started on this that sweet sunburst memories came back.
Coarse bristles wet and mixing pigments with her mother, sweeping strokes and making something as a child. Dragging a brush through the watercolors with eager hands.
She used to do this. This used to be hers.
And in this sunflower room, it still is hers.
“Do you think she'll like it?” Gamora asks nervously, rocking back on her feet.
There's a whisper of movement behind her, a soft shuffle before his warmth is at her back, and Peter wraps her in his arms.
“She'll love it,” he assures her, his hand moving in soft circles on her belly, and Gamora sighs, relaxing into his embrace.
She's still smiling, cause yeah. She'll love it.