riverviewlogs | ( closed ) when the dawn breaks, i want to be deep

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( closed ) when the dawn breaks, i want to be deep

who: Gamora & Peter Quill
what: "I'm fine" is actually "I'm in a coma"
when: Backdated to May 31st
where: Riverview Hospital
warnings: None, so far

[ Gamora doesn't get sick.

Or, at least, she isn't supposed to. Thanos did many things to her, changed her body in ways that made her a better killer, a better weapon, and part of being an effective weapon is an immunity to biological hazards. Often, that meant that the more manageable bacteria and viruses were decimated by her system, leaving her comfortably untouched by any symptoms, but this time...

This time, the cough settles into her lungs instead of vanishing after mere hours. This time, the fever ravages her body in her sleep, leaving her to wake shivering all over with a pounding headache. Two days is what she'd convinced Peter to give her in terms of staving off the same aggressive virus affecting others in the Quarantine, but she barely makes it to her shift with her squad before she collapses.

She's moved quickly to the hospital, and Peter is notified.

Perhaps mercifully, Gamora remains unconscious as the illness wreaks havoc on her mods. She isn't awake to suffer through the worst of it, but she also doesn't stir even slightly when she's committed to a room for observation. She doesn't wake the next day, or the next, or the next...

The hospital itself is filled with similar cases: people affected by the virus, put out of commission to be monitored by medical personnel as they slip into one coma after another. The number of cases is growing extreme, but there's little they can do.

It's nearing two weeks by the time Gamora starts to give the faintest of twitches. When the nanites leave her system, her mods kick into gear, and she starts to come back into herself. She's groggy at first, feeling like a weight has been sitting on her chest, like her arms and legs are made of molasses, but she makes the softest of noises, finally bringing up a fist to rub at her eyes. ]

Mmph.

[ ... it's a very graceful awakening. ]

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[ There are a very few, very specific fears Peter has. Small, dark, narrow spaces, for one. All-consuming, all-powerful relics falling into the wrong hands, for another.

But chief among them? Watching helplessly as his loved ones fall ill.

It's familiar. It's terrifying. And there's absolutely nothing he can do.

He hovers, in the days after it becomes clear Gamora has caught whatever weird fucking bug is flying around the Quarantine. He stays glued to her side, despite her protests, and he watches her, offers a glass of water, some painkillers, a cool towel, whatever she needs while she's ill. (And he thinks of Mom, and how she would smile at him, how she'd run a hand through his hair and tell him, "You don't gotta do all that, baby. I can manage.") He hopes beyond hope that she's right about her mods, but while Gamora keeps waving him off, keeps insisting she's fine, his brain starts kicking up doomsday scenario after doomsday scenario.

He's terrified out of his mind. He's angry, too, but only at how helpless he feels, and it's like being eight years old all over again, pissed off at the universe and lashing out in whatever way he could. As a kid, he had vented his frustrations out on bullies – only to get his ass beat.

Older now, and stronger and faster to boot, he takes it out on the monsters beyond the wall.

But history repeats: some creature gets the better of him while he's outside the walls, and while he has little to show for it but a wounded pride and a blackened eye, when the monster retreats, his comm buzzes.

There's an uncomfortable chair in Riverview Hospital. He becomes pretty well-acquainted with it, as he sits at Gamora's bedside.

Two fucking weeks, and Peter is sick with worry. He hates this. He hates this. And he wants to scream and lash out and tear down the walls, and he keeps wondering why it wasn't him, why couldn't it be him, and why the fuck does this keep happening? Why do the people he loves most drop like flies around him? He's a curse. He's a jinx. Somehow, and he doesn't know how, this is his fault.

Two fucking weeks, and Peter spends every moment he can at Gamora's bedside. Sometimes, he leaves Groot at some sort of daycare, some kind of babysitting service. Sometimes, though, he brings Groot along – even though he knows the kid doesn't understand what's happening, even if he knows he just ends up bored out of his mind when they spend their nights there.

("I am Groot?" When will she wake up?

And Peter can only shake his head, try to give the kid a small, reassuring smile. His only answer: "Whenever she's ready, I guess.")

Two fucking weeks, and the indistinct sound of voices over the PA system, the squeaking of rubber soles on linoleum, the hushed conversations, the creaking of metal cots and whisper of blankets, the rasp and squeal of wheels rolling down halls – it all grates in his ears, sets his teeth on edge. Common sounds in a hospital, sure, but to Peter, it might as well be nails on a chalkboard. The stench of medicine, of astringent cleaning products, of laundry detergent and metal and sweat and sickness, makes Peter want to puke.

Two fucking weeks, and Groot dozes in a small nest made of a baby blanket on Gamora's nightstand. Peter sits with his head in his hands earbuds in place to drown out the noise of the hospital, and—

Gamora finally moves.

He straightens in his uncomfortable chair, yanking his headphones out of his ears as he stares at her, eyes owlish and jaw clenched. He might have imagined it. He might have been dreaming. He might have—

No. There it is again. And again, and she moves, exhales quietly like she's waking in the morning, and—

Peter forgets how to breath.

She stirs, movements sluggish and uncharacteristically clumsy, and that little noise she makes is the sweetest fucking music Peter's heard in a long fucking time.

And his voice is rough, barely there, when he finally whispers, ]

Gamora?

[ It's like trying to shake off a particularly heavy sleep, but Gamora hears her name, turning to the voice in the chair by her bed. ]

Peter.

[ She looks pleased to see him, but it passes in a moment in favor of confusion. She glances at the room itself, taking note of Groot asleep on the nightstand, of the heart monitor beeping steadily by her bed. ]

Where am I?

[ A hospital? She's so disoriented, but her chest isn't rattling with a cough, and her temperature is back to normal. This doesn't feel as simple as waking up after a particularly long night, but whatever symptoms were raging through her body with the virus are gone. ]

A hospital.

[ As if that weren’t obvious enough. He licks his lips looking her over, and— she looks groggy. That much is obvious. She looks groggy and confused but apparently the sickness hasn’t lingered. Her voice is heavy with sleep, but not thick and raspy, as it had been the days before fell unconscious.

It’s like nothing even happened. ]

You... got sick. Really sick. They said you just— collapsed.

[ At least that confirms the more obvious hunch – though she's not especially pleased by the reality. Like Peter, she has no love for hospitals.

She presses the heel of her hand against one eye, then slowly starts trying to push herself up. ]

When?

[ She has absolutely no recollection of losing consciousness, or much of how sick she'd been. She remembers going to work, and then—

Waking up here. ]

[ He hesitates, hands hovering around her to help her sit up, if she needs. ]

... A while ago.

[ She'll figure out the exact time frame later, but a part of him figures it's best to ease her into it. ]

Just relax, okay? Take it easy.

[ "Taking it easy" is, by definition, not Gamora's strong suit.

She reaches out, bracing herself on Peter's outstretched hand until she pushes herself completely upright. ]

... When can we go home?

[ He frowns, watching her movements carefully, keeping an eye out for any sign of discomfort. His hand is tight around hers – probably much tighter than strictly necessary, but he doesn't realize it. ]

I'm not sure. I can go grab someone.

[ She nods, though she doesn't make any immediate move to let go of him. She can feel how tightly he's holding onto her, and there's something grounding about it; it helps ease away the grogginess of weeks spent lying in a bed. ]

The sooner, the better.

[ Because if she doesn't have to stay in this hospital? She wants to be back at their apartment. Besides that, she feels fine, if tired. ]

... Yeah.

[ But he hesitates a long moment, hand still clasping hers, before he reluctantly draws back. ]

You're... you're sure you're feeling up to going?

[ Months ago, Gamora would have been insistent about how fine she is, that she's clearly alive and well, but—

Now, she understands how difficult it must have been for Peter while she was here, how painful. Putting herself in his shoes, she would have been almost immovably stubborn about ensuring he got the care he needed. So instead of snapping and sighing and trying to brush off his worry, she just nods, reaching up to run a hand back through her flattened curls.]

I'm sure. There's no sign of a fever, and the other symptoms are gone.

[ She can feel that much. ]

I just want to get moving.

[ He looks uncertain for a few more breaths, brow furrowing and the corners of his lips turning downward, but—

Eventually he nods – quick and hesitant – before he returns with a haggard-looking doctor in tow.

He hovers nearby as the woman checks Gamora's vitals, as she asks a few questions. It's a routine Peter is all too familiar with, and he fidgets where he stands beside the nightstand, keeping out of the way and listening to each word that falls from the doctor's lips.

"At this point, the nanites should be dormant," she finally says, and while she suggests staying for observation, they're apparently free to leave.

(In all likelihood, they would probably prefer to open up the bed.)

And when the doctor steps away, steps into the space she had just left. He watches her leave, and when she disappears around the doorway, he turns back to Gamora. ]

You're sure you don't wanna stay another night?

[ It all offers an explanation, if nothing else, and though Gamora would rather brush aside all these tests and assessments, she's patient as the doctor looks her over. Observation is just a suggestion, rather than an order, and when she and Peter are finally left alone, she just shakes her head as she pushes back her blankets. ]

I want to be home, Peter.

[ As much as their apartment is "home," now. ]

I can always come back, if anything changes.

[ And given how extreme the contact with the nanites happened to be, she wouldn't even fight him if the symptoms reappeared. ]

[ His jaw tics at that "reassurance," his expression turning grim.

Sure, they can always come back. But Peter had wanted her to come here right away in the first place, and they hadn't, and she had spent two fucking weeks, unconscious in an hospital bed, and—

Rationally, he knows that even if they had shown up the second those symptoms had appeared, there was nothing they could have done to halt the downward spiral. It was just a thing, and it was simply a matter of waiting out the coma. But Peter has spent almost two weeks thinking on all the "what-ifs" and the "should have dones," pacing a trench in the floor as he painstakingly reviewed every mistake that landed them in this stupid room.

I told you this was serious, he wants to say. I told you this wasn't nothing.

But he relents, letting out a breath and offering her a hand up before scooping up Groot. (With the late hour, he continues to doze; it'll be a pleasant surprise for him once they're back at the apartment.) ]

Lean on me if you need to.

[ Again, she swallows down the urge to insist she's fine, that she doesn't need any help, but instead, she takes Peter's hand to slide out of the bed. Once she's on her feet, she waits for Peter to take Groot out of the room so she can change out of the hospital gown, and back into normal clothes. That done, she's ready to leave the hospital to head back to their apartments.

Everything is a little slow-going, a little sluggish at first, but she's shaking off the last of the groggy ache clinging to her as they walk through the streets. She holds Peter's arm as they go (not necessarily because she needs to, but— for herself. For that point of contact, knowing that Peter must have struggled while she was stuck in that coma.

She waits until they make it back to the apartment, taking off her boots before she looks over at him, asking more pointedly, ]

How long was I out?

[ He's mindful of her every shift, every movement, watching her with far more attention than probably strictly necessary. And it's slow going, sure, but Peter doesn't mind, and if she didn't seem to be shaking off the effects of the nanites, he might have insisted they go even slower.

But more and more, she seems to be returning to her normal self, and that should be a relief, right?

They're home again, though, and only then does a part of him start to relax. The dishes, miraculously, have been washed, though they haven't made the jump from the drying rack to the cabinets. Baby steps, you know?

He sets Groot down to settle in the other bed as Gamora pulls off her boots. He's tucking the sapling in when she asks that question, and he pauses, licking his lips. He draws the blankets up around Groot before he finally answers, ]

A while.

[ She pauses in taking off her boots, setting one aside and watching Peter's face closely. ]

Peter.

[ The way she says his name is pointed, but not harsh.

"Stop being vague." ]

[ A muscle in his jaw jumps, though he can't bring himself to meet her gaze.

It takes a while, but he finally answers properly: ]

... Almost two weeks.

[ and he casts the words almost guiltily. ]

[ Gamora immediately goes stiff, and it's only the fact that Groot is out like a light that her response isn't louder. ]

Two weeks?

[ Quietly but hissed out, disbelief and shock making something acrid twist in her stomach. She'd been in that bed for weeks, and her mods had done nothing to help? Were they no longer functioning properly? Peter had been untouched, so—

She shakes away the worrisome line of thought, her jaw set as she looks down at her boots, then back to Peter. ]

What did I miss?

Nothing, really.

[ He spares Groot one last glance before heading over to the bed he shares with Gamora, easing himself down beside her. ]

Apparently it's just... the natural course of the nanites? They get you sick, take you down, and just... kinda go away on their own. Maybe they run outta juice or something. I'm not sure.

[ She watches him move and settle next to her, and her knee reflexively shifts to press against his. She nods slowly, though she doesn't look contented by the answer; it makes sense, but she feels so... off-kilter knowing she missed out on so much time.

She's quiet for a long, drawn-out moment, and then she reaches out to take his hand. ]

... How have you been?

[ He folds his fingers over hers when she reaches for him, his grip a little more tight than usual, probably, but he appreciates the warmth of her touch – not that weird, unnatural heat of before – the solidness of her grip.

At her question, though, he snorts out an incredulous laugh. ]

How have I been? Seriously? You were the one in a coma.

Which means I wasn't around to experience anything for those two weeks. You were the one awake.

[ For her, she'd effectively been dead to the world. As disorienting as it had been to wake in the hospital, she hadn't suffered terribly for the coma itself. ]

I'm fine.

[ Physically, anyway. ]

I'm not the one who caught a weird super robovirus.

[ There's still a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the niggling concern of exactly why she'd been vulnerable, when she was made not to be. ]

And I'm clearly recovering.

[ She feels better, if tired. ]

But you were left alone – with Groot.

[ He lifts both shoulders in a shrug, gaze flicking over to the sapling in question. ]

Yeah. And we managed, so...

It's fine. Really.

[ He takes a rallying breath, glancing at her before moving to stand. ]

You should be resting. I can get your night clothes, if you want.

[ Her hand slips to his wrist, catching him before he can get too far. ]

Hey.

[ Quiet, but coaxing, trying to get him to look at her before he tries to distract them both by shuffling around. ]

[ He still gets to his feet before Gamora catches him, but even as her light as her touch is, it's enough to arrest him to the spot.

He doesn't look at her, doesn't even say anything, because— there's a small part of him that worries he's going to totally lose it. ]

[ She doesn't try to pull him back to the bed, but she nudges her boots aside with her toe before getting to her feet. ]

Peter.

[ Just his name as she moves to stand in front of him, as her free hand reaches up to cup his cheek. Because she hasn't— really reaffirmed that she's here – for Peter or for herself. She's been shaking off the residual effects of the coma and trying to catch up to the disorienting realization that she's lost out on weeks of time, but...

She hasn't had a chance to focus on Peter. ]

[ He swallows audibly around the ugly lump in his throat as Gamora stands in front of him, but he still can't get himself to meet her gaze. Still, he can't help the way he leans into her touch, the way he takes a quick, shuddering breath, and— ]

—I told you it wasn't nothing.

[ And the words fall from his lips before he can stop them, voice wavering and thick and not much louder than a whisper. ]

I told you. I told you it was serious, but you didn't listen to me—

[ —oh, fuck. Fuck, this is so stupid. She's fine now, she's totally fine, and he can see and hear and feel it for himself, but he feels flayed open and raw and he thinks he's crashing, and crashing hard, and he can feel his throat close up and his eyes sting and—

Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Is he seriously starting to cry? Seriously? His hand shakes as he reaches up, as he furiously scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

Fuck, fuck, this is so stupid. ]

[ This is unfamiliar territory for Gamora. Such open, honest displays of emotion still leave her at a loss, but something in her aches for how wrecked Peter sounds. But instead of bristling and snapping like a cornered animal at the accusations, the 'I told you so's, Gamora keeps her hand on his face. ]

I know.

[ Her voice is soft, but there's nothing that takes the shape of pity or disdain for the tears he's trying to force back. ]

You were right.

[ He was right, and she was wrong, but—

Nothing would have changed if she'd gone to the hospital earlier; she still would have ended up in that coma for who knows how long.

(She doesn't feel the need to point that out right now.)

Her palm leaves his cheek, and her arms wind around him, hooking under his shoulders to pull him close. ]

[ Fuck.

That fucking does it.

Because he was tearing up before, but he had a threadbare hold on himself, keeping everything reined in. But when she admits she was wrong, when she pulls him in, he just—

Yeah. He loses it.

He held it together pretty well for two fucking weeks, moved on autopilot in the same way he had as a kid. Everything felt like a dream. Like it was happening to someone else, and he was just— on the outside, looking in. So maybe he wasn't coping, but he was— managing.

And in the span of, what, a handful of hours? That flimsy sense of control just— shatters. He buries his face against her neck wraps his arms around her far too tightly, like he's afraid she might fall apart, like she might crumble to dust in his hands. ]

[ Gamora doesn't even try to displace him. She lets him cling as tightly as he needs to, and she holds onto him right back, offering the strength of her embrace and the warmth of her body as a promise that she's back. She left him alone for those two weeks to worry and wait, and— ]

I'm sorry, Peter.

[ And it's just so quiet, just for him to hear as she holds him close, pressing her nose against his hair and letting him take all the time he needs.

She isn't going anywhere. ]

[ He bites down on his lips, tries to cage in the sobs that rack his frame. God, this is embarrassing. This is so stupid. He should be happy, because Gamora is on the mend, and she's moving around and talking and seems none the worse for wear, but—

He keeps thinking back on that stupid day. Standing beyond the walls with his comm in hand. Staring down at it after the guard he had been speaking with had urged him to return to the city proper.

"It's Gamora," they had said, clipped and urgent.

And suddenly he was eight years old again, and Gramps' truck was parked out front, and Gramps was waiting for him on the stoop of their house, eyes rimmed red and tear tracks still wetting his cheeks. Peter had slowed to a stop, his blackened eye stinging and dread plummeting through his chest.

"It's your mom, Pete," Gramps had said. "She doesn't have much time left." ]

I told you.

[ Stubbornly, but just as softly.

Even if he knows that going into the hospital any earlier would have done nothing. But there's a small, naive part of him that thinks they could have saved themselves two weeks of grief if Gamora had just listened. ]

You did.

[ He did, and she knows he did, and she knows he was right, but— The outcome would have been the same.

But this pain is real, and trying to argue with him now isn't the right call. He just needs her to be there, solid and unwavering, so that's what she'll be.

She turns her head to kiss his hair, running her palm up and down his back, pulling him just a little closer. ]

I'm not going anywhere now.

[ It— helps. The steadiness, the certainty, the solid weight of her arms around him, of her breath against his temple. Peter's not sure how long it takes, but eventually, he calms down a little, evens out his breathing, forces down the next sob that tries to rattle its way out of him.

He sniffs, pulling back only enough to scrub at his eyes. God, this was fucking stupid. And he feels stupid. He wasn't the one that got sick, and he wasn't the one who ended up laid up in a hospital, so why is Gamora comforting him?

Stupid. Totally stupid. ]

Sorry. [ Thick and raspy and wavering. ] I don't know where that came from.

Don't apologize.

[ The chiding comes effortlessly, if gently. He doesn't owe her an apology for being vulnerable, for feeling this.

... She just hates that he's hurting because of it all.

She doesn't pull away, but leans back enough to card her fingers through his hair. ]

Rest with me?

[ She could stand to sleep a little longer, at least until proper morning, and she'd rather have Peter right there with her. ]

[ He nods against her, a hand still covering his face as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and rocks back a little, eyes still downcast. ]

Yeah. Of course. Um.

[ He clears his throat, scrubbing at his face again. ]

I'll get your night clothes. [ Like he offered earlier. ] Just... take it easy.

[ She nods, and she doesn't see the point in arguing. She understands that it gives him something to do, makes him feel less helpless, and though Gamora is still adjusting to letting people do things for her, in this, she cedes control.

She leans in once more to kiss his cheek, then steps back properly to start stripping for the night.

She gets down to her undershirt and panties, then starts pulling down the covers to crawl into bed. ]

[ Peter changes first, not bothering to leave the room. His clothes get tossed into a pile at the foot of the bed, and he pulls on a pair of loose-fitting sweats.

And he retrieves Gamora's clothing from a drawer, glancing over briefly to Groot to make sure Peter's waterworks didn't wake the kid up. (Thankfully not; Peter's pretty sure the kid could sleep through a tornado and not even twitch.) He sniffs again, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist again, and tries desperately to pretend none of that shameful display happened.

He sits on the edge of their bed, holding the folded clothes out to her. ]

[ Gamora sits up on her knees to take the clothes from Peter, tugging on the loose shirt and shorts with ease, before she settles beside him on the edge, her legs folded under her. She leans over, resting her forehead against his temple, and reaches for his hand. ]

I'm here.

[ And she says it because she wants him to know it, to feel it. ]

[ He nods a little, threading her fingers with his when she reaches for his hand. ]

I know, but—

[ —but there were dark, ugly moments when he thought she wouldn't be, and something cold would clench around his chest, would make it hard to breathe, and he knew he needed to step out to get some air, but he was afraid that leaving would spell the end, and—

He knew people were coming out of their comas. He knew it would be fine, eventually, given enough time, but he still spent two weeks physically numb while terror screeched just outside his mental doors. Nothing felt real, but now that they're creeping out of the woods, it's all just— crashing into him, and it feels selfish and stupid to make Gamora worry. ]

You're... you're sure you're feeling okay?

I am.

[ And she says it with conviction and a perfect sincerity. It's not an attempt to brush off concern, but a real, genuine assurance that her body is shaking away the effects of the nanites.

She reaches for Peter's other hand, pulling it gently to her sternum. She breathes in once, exhales steadily, and then, ]

There's nothing in my lungs. My fever is gone. My heartrate has returned to normal.

[ She lists it slowly, letting Peter's hand rise and fall with every breath, the even, rhythmic thump of her heart under his palm. ]

... Okay.

[ He breathes the word out, shoulders dropping a little as he forces the tension out of himself. His fingers curl a little against her sternum, but he feels the steady beat of her heart under his hand. She's warm against him, but not with that same sharp, worrying heat, and—

And she's okay. He knows that. He knows all too well that she'll only get better from here, as is the case with all the other victims to the virus. (He had distantly kept tabs on everyone nearby, had listened as friends and family burst into joyous tears in the rooms around him, watched as other patients had woken and were guided away—

and he waited.)

But there's a difference between knowing and understanding, and it's that particular jump he's having trouble making.

He licks his lips, lifting his chin a little in a truncated gesture toward the bed. ]

C'mon. Get some sleep.

[ She can see that he's not completely comforted, but that's to be expected. It'll take more than a few hours of seeing her awake for it to sink in, she's sure, and she doesn't begrudge him that.

A soft nod, and she leaves a soft kiss on his cheek before she breaks contact to crawl under the covers. She leaves Peter's usual spot open for him, laying on her side and waiting for him to join her. ]

You probably need it as much as I do.

[ He only lets out a soft, acknowledging hum as he follows her, slipping beneath the blankets. He lies on his side, facing her, wrapping his arm around her waist. ]

Wake me if you need anything.

[ ... though if he's honest, he doesn't expect he'll be able to get much sleep in the first place. ]

[ She nods again, scooting in closer to let their legs tangle together. She reaches up to stroke a thumb across his cheek, quietly taking in the lines of his face, like she's trying to memorize him from the outside in. ]

Only if you do the same.

[ It's an offer she'd make at any point, but more so right now. ]

[ He's not entirely sure where it comes from, what dregs from what barrels he has to scrape, but he manages to dredge up a small smile for her. ]

Yeah. Of course.

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( closed ) when the dawn breaks, i want to be deep

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