[ Peter watches the kid, feels something bitter and cold twist in his chest at his words.
(Don’t engage, Stark had screamed at him, but the words might as well have been coming to him from miles away, for all that Peter heard them.
Because he was too busy wrangling with that shock, that fury, that grief, too busy seeing Gamora’s face in his mind’s eye – the way she smiles and laughs (quiet and barely there), the way she sighs at him when he says or does something ridiculous, the way she sometimes looks at him so unbelievably soft and gentle, and—
He needed to rip Thanos apart. Limb from limb. Needed to tear the very skin from his fucking bones—
Promise me you’ll kill me, Gamora had said, but he had hesitated. He had waited. And naively, he had hoped. He was a kid with a toy gun who had been chucked into a fucking war.
It happened because of you, Pete says.
The kid probably doesn’t realize how right he is.) ]
None of this is your fault.
[ And the words are cast quietly, croaked out, except Peter has no idea how the words manage to escape past the sudden tightness in his throat. He falls silent again, staring down at the bare floor, before he abruptly lurches to his feet. ]
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(Don’t engage, Stark had screamed at him, but the words might as well have been coming to him from miles away, for all that Peter heard them.
Because he was too busy wrangling with that shock, that fury, that grief, too busy seeing Gamora’s face in his mind’s eye – the way she smiles and laughs (quiet and barely there), the way she sighs at him when he says or does something ridiculous, the way she sometimes looks at him so unbelievably soft and gentle, and—
He needed to rip Thanos apart. Limb from limb. Needed to tear the very skin from his fucking bones—
Promise me you’ll kill me, Gamora had said, but he had hesitated. He had waited. And naively, he had hoped. He was a kid with a toy gun who had been chucked into a fucking war.
It happened because of you, Pete says.
The kid probably doesn’t realize how right he is.) ]
None of this is your fault.
[ And the words are cast quietly, croaked out, except Peter has no idea how the words manage to escape past the sudden tightness in his throat. He falls silent again, staring down at the bare floor, before he abruptly lurches to his feet. ]
I’m— I’ve gotta go.