riverviewlogs | [ open; ] the city streets are empty now

Entry tags:

[ open; ] the city streets are empty now

who: Peter Quill & open!
what: Quill is coming back from a canon update, which includes four years and the events of Infinity War. So he's going to be a little off his game.
when: August 24th and onward
where: All around Riverview & a bit outside the walls
warnings: none, aside from Quill having a pretty rough time

i. the sun always shines on tv;

[ Peter wastes a couple days, sitting in his apartment, staring at a wall. He catches Mantis hovering around, sometimes, and occasionally, he tries to send her a small, reassuring smile. Something that says, It’s fine. I’m fine. I just need a second. Groot doesn’t fully understand why Peter is so— weird, but the kid still recognizes that there’s something wildly wrong. And as the days drag on, Groot just drags over the Zune while Peter stares, offering Peter an earbud.

It’s on the third day that Peter realizes he can’t just— do this. He can’t keep moping. Because Mantis and Groot are clearly worried, and— what if the others show up? Peter did, after all. And Mantis and Groot are still here, hale and whole. So maybe the others will arrive, too. Any day now. And if they find out how completely useless he was while he waited, he’d never hear the end of it.

So he scrubs his face and announces that he’s going to take Groot to the beach.

Of course, about ten minutes after they arrive at the banks of the river for a day of fun in the sun, or whatever the hell Peter’s calling it, Groot immediately wanders away, slipping through the legs of the various beachgoers as he chases down one of those alien sugargliders.

Predictably, Peter panics as he works to shove past the crowd. ]

Groot—

Groot, get back here!

ii. new york groove;

[ A day or two later, Peter’s back at work. Unwise, considering he’s still injured, but the four walls of his apartment were quickly becoming suffocating.

His job with the Perimeter Guard, such as it is, is to scout the area, to map it out, to uncover valuable goods buried in the dirt or left abandoned in reasonable condition, and most days, he’s good at it. He’s agile and clever and does one hell of a job avoiding the monsters that lurk in the abandoned areas.

But today, he seems to be attracting trouble – though truthfully, he’s seeking it out, though he’s unconscious of it. Rather than veer out of the angry looking creatures’ way, he stumbles headlong into them. And for a while, he’s forging a decent path, shooting out huge, burning chunks of them and leaving the corpses to rot in the woods.

And then he’s not.

Peter never played Dungeons & Dragons as a kid, but if he did, he’d instantly recognize a Bulette when he sees one.

Or more accurately, he’d recognize a Bulette as it’s leaping at him, all gnashing teeth and sharp claws and hard armored plates. Peter manages to dodge out of the way, but only barely, and he goes tumbling and rolling across the jungle floor.

Little help? ]

iii. yesterday once more;

[ Peter was in the middle of wandering the aisles of Blu-Rays and DVDs in some electronic goods stores. In his arms is a stack of movies, old favorites and new ones he had picked out based solely on how interesting he found the covers.

The criteria for his current selections: Would the other Guardians like these? So far, he has picked out The Wizard of Oz for Groot and The Dark Crystal for Mantis. Along the way, he picks up Predator for Rocket and Rambo for Drax, because, well, they're going to be here eventually, right? And the films would be decent ice breakers, once they arrive

And he was in the middle of reluctantly looking for something for Nebula (would she have a good enough sense of humor about it if he picked up Robocop, or would she just threaten to sew his face to his balls like she usually does?), except right now, he's frozen in front of a shelf, completely zoned out while he faces a copy of Footloose.

Sorry if he's in your way, fellow patron. ]

iv. turn to stone;

[ It's been over a week since he's been back, and Peter's out on a very, very late night grocery run. He's been putting off getting them various odds and ends – paper towels, boxes of cereal, various snacks – and apparently he's decided tonight's the night—

(because the bed is too empty, and the atmosphere in the apartment is too fucking heavy, and Groot and Mantis are so fucking sad, and he can't stay in there, he really can't, not a single minute more, because shouldn't the other Guardians have been here by now? Shouldn't Gamora have come back with him, since they left together?

Why isn't she here?)

—because he's trying to be productive.

He's also decided, apparently, that baskets and carts are completely unnecessary. So here he is now, a former thief turned Guardian of the Galaxy, juggling his items in his arms as he stands in the refrigerated dairy section. He shuffles things around and reaches for a jug.

And fumbles it.

The plastic bursts open as the jug lands, milk splashing across the floor. It pools around his boots, and for a second, he just stares at it all before he lets out a helpless laugh, scrubbing his face.

One might think that life in space would have erased Peter's love of Terran idioms, but it hasn't, really. He used them whenever he could. Phrases like "killing two birds with one stone," or "letting the cat out of the bag," or going the "whole nine yards" were pretty common from him as he grew up on the Ravager ship.

There's another Terran saying that Peter uses sometimes: Don't cry over spilled milk.

Guess who's trying desperately not to do just that? ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Peter is quick to learn about Big Pete's return.

Without Gamora.

And in knowing he's back, he gives him space, partly out of fear of what he could even say, and partly because the guy probably really needs said space. He knows what it's like at least a little; it wasn't very long ago that he had a mini-meltdown in Athena's arms over what he'd learned about his future — and the futures of so many. But he's at least had a little time to try and adjust and push through it. Ben wouldn't want him to be weighed down by his mortality, and May wouldn't want him to just waste what time he's got, so he's... trying. He puts on his own mask and gets to work.

When he finds Peter in the jungle, a trail of monster bodies behind him and the Bulette lunging for him, he's quick to aim and fire off a web grenade (and ignore the way his heart leaps up into his throat). The beast's legs get entangled and it goes toppling, rolling round and round 'til it hits a big tree. It's at least dazed and he leaps down to the ground and starts unleashing all the webbing in his current canisters, to keep the thing down.

And you know, he'd throw some witty remark, maybe laugh off the situation, but instead he rushes over to where he'd seen Peter go sailing and yanks off his mask as he moves. He hadn't exactly been at a good enough angle to tell if the guardian was hit or not, and that's kind of freaking him out.]

Pete?! Hey, you over there?!

[You better not have gotten murdered by a D&D monster, he swears to fucking god, he can't deal with a double-death here.]

[ Yeah, getting murdered by a D&D monster would just be insulting after getting murdered by a giant purple nutsack.

Peter, thankfully, didn't get a face full of teeth or claws, as the Bulette probably would have liked, but the impact of the creature's landing was still enough to send him flying and tumbling, ass over tea kettle.

By the time he rolls to a stop (his progress is gently stopped by big ol' boulder) he's winded and stunned, and his already bruised ribs are so freaking pissed at him, but that's fine. He's fine. He's alive, isn't he?

He coughs, which certainly doesn't make things any better, and tries to get his limbs underneath him. He gets as far as propping himself up on an elbow when he sees the kid rushing toward him. ]

Uh. Hey.

[ Slightly strained, almost surprised. He didn't expect to meet anyone else out here, clearly.

And his gaze slides past the kid to the big landshark monster thing struggling against the webbing it's coated in. ]

... I had that handled.

[Peter breathes out a shaky sigh, relieved. He hadn't even been sure that he would come back, and now that he's here there's a little less weight on his heart and soul. He offers a gloved hand out for Big Pete to take, his expression still a little grim, a little strained. What's he supposed to say? He wants to explode into apologies. He wants to make a run for it, like how he'd made a run for it from Gamora on that tram; but look where that got him? Look at what happened.

Guilt paints his eyes as he looks down at Peter. He tries to smile, and while it doesn't reach his eyes, it at least looks somewhat honest.]

... Hey, man, I'm not judging.

[He's gonna fucking lose it. There's no way he can do this. Mantis was hard enough, but now he owes it to Peter to be honest with him — unlike before. Karma's a bitch, what with him only just learning from Mr. Stark that he had been keeping his demise from him, too.

Go figure, that it'd bite him on the ass, this whole 'avoiding and keeping your mouth shut' thing.

At least this Guardian isn't an empath, huh?]

Um. Welcome back?

[ Peter glances down at the offered hand before reluctantly taking it, hauling himself up to his feet. His hand briefly presses against his aching side – he's really going to need to ice these bruises, later – but after that, he brushes himself off.

(Just dirt, he tells himself. Just dirt and dead leaves that he's shaking off. Nothing more.)

The niceties can come later, apparently, because Peter is looking back at the big, angry creature, who's snarling and snapping in its bonds. ]

How long does that crap last?

Aah, 'bout two and a half hours.

[He'd extended the time with some measure of success anyway, in Mr. Stark's lab. Not by much, but by enough. He watches the creature and determines it'll probably get exhausted after a while, which is a double-success as far as the webbing is concerned. He snaps out of his anxious trance long enough to pop the capsules from his wrists, replacing them with full canisters of web fluid.]

Are you — are you okay? You hurt your ribs? We should get you somewhere to rest those.

[... He's scared to ask about Gamora, but it's on the forefront of his mind.]

[ Two and a half hours is a decent length of time – probably enough to get a good distance away, he figures, and wander further into the jungles. The practical part of him says he could probably use the time to put the creature down so that it no longer poses a threat, though getting through those plates might pose one hell of a problem. And more than that, if Peter shoots the creature now, he knows the plasma of his blasters will burn straight through the webbing.

He has personal experience. He remembers waking to find himself tethered to the rusted skeleton of a derelict ship. He had panicked, had felt that ugly surge of rage as he came to, and—

He had needed to kill Thanos. Peter had needed to beat his face in until his fists were raw and bloody from the repeated impacts, until the Titan's head was the consistency of jelly. He had pulled and yanked at the webbing to free himself, but a single shot from his blaster had done the trick, and—

When the kid starts asking questions, Peter blinks at him from behind the faceplate of his mask – almost like he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing. Unconsciously, his hand goes to his right side. ]

I'm fine.

[ Automatic. Blank.

And then he realizes how fucked he must sound, and he shakes himself. With a little more of his usual inflection, ]

I'm good. Appreciate the concern, though.

[Okay, but you're really not good, Big Pete.

Part of him considers if he should just pretend everything's the same. That maybe Quill's too preoccupied with home that he won't even give a shit about Peter's weird and abrupt silence. After all, he's a teenager, and people probably figure he goes through... hormone issues, or something. Maybe he wouldn't ask about it, and then he wouldn't ask about Quill's trip, and—

That's just running away. And at this point, it can't get any fucking worse (alright, it can, but what's a broken arm when your head's lopped off?) and he can clearly see the guy's struggling. He might as well just keep blindly wandering into the fire that is this situation.]

Are you sure about that? You — shouldn't be back at work already, if you've got injuries, y'know. It could — [get you killed] earn you even more injuries on top of that. C'mon, I'll get you some ice packs. I've been giving people way too many lately, I'll tell ya...

I'm good.

[ Sharper, that time, though he's trying to maintain a certain level of brightness in his voice.

Peter's never been very good about tending to his injuries, insistent as he's always been on pulling his weight, in making himself useful. Bad habit, admittedly, but the options were to either come to work and stretch his legs, or to recuperate in his apartment, surrounded by Gamora's belongings—

At least showing up for a shift with the Perimeter Guard felt like he was doing something, and he desperately needs to do something, or his mind starts wandering.

He looks at the kid again, and— there are four years of memories sitting between now and the day he had left Riverview, which makes things a little— weird. His memories of his time in Riverview shift wildly from feeling fresh to feeling distant. For a second, he stares, confused, then, ]

Is— is that a new suit?

[ Because the last time Peter saw Little Pete, he was wearing something a lot more metallic. ]

[He glances away. Swallows.]

Um. It's — It's my usual suit, actually.

[It'll be about two years until he gets it, for him. Time works about as usefully as whatever plans they had up there on Titan. He breathes in and out, unsure if it's better or worse that he can't see Quill's face right now.]

... Mr. Stark made whatever you saw me in.

[He licks his lips, hesitates.]

I'm sorry.

[It's entirely vague and unhelpful, because there's a number of things to be sorry about, but it's something. Peter Parker has always been the king at saying sorry. Sorry I broke your chimney, sorry I made you worry, sorry I hit you too hard, I'm sorry please don't keep the suit—]

I'm — I'm so, so sorry.

Oh.

[ A little lamely. But, okay. That makes sense. This is an old suit. That was a new suit. Okay, then.

Peter takes a breath to say something – anything – else in a desperate attempt to change the topic to keep his mind off everything that happened back home, but then—

The kid has to go and say that, doesn't he?

His face isn't visible right now, but that doesn't stop Peter from forcing a puzzled, brittle smile. ]

The hell are you apologizing for? What, did you TP my apartment while I was gone?

[He feels a little sick, and certainly doesn't laugh at the light banter. He just rubs his hand up and down his bicep and tries to think of how to just spit it out. And Pete's here, waiting expectantly for some kind of answer. If he doesn't say it now, he never will. It'll be another long quiet spell that just makes it all worse. He doesn't want to let it get any worse than it already is.

He squeezes his eyes shut, heart thudding in his chest. It comes out of him like a punch.]

I knew what was going to happen on Titan. I knew we lost. That's why I was being such a dick, because I was scared of how to say it, and I knew — I knew if I said anything, it'd ruin your time here, but I didn't even think that you'd go home, so I just — I just didn't say anything. And I'm so sorry, Pete, I'm really sorry.

[ Oh.

Peter freezes entirely, staring, while all of his thoughts spiral out of his head. He hears his pulse pounding in his ears, feels the sour taste of bile on the back of his throat. Unconsciously, his hands curl into fists, arms shaking and knuckles turning white with the effort.

(He remembers turning to Gamora before they stepped through the portal. He remembers grabbing her hand in a bruising grip while everything Mantis had told them ran in a loop in his head. And he remembers promising, I swear, no matter what happens, I'm gonna find you.)

His breathing is harsh and loud in the confines of his mask, and he feels that ugly lance of anger again, something that pierces straight through his chest and makes him want to puke. He doesn't know what to say, but he feels himself lurching back a step, shaking his head, and—

(I had to.

No, you didn't—)

Nearby, the Bulette manages to free one of its legs with a furious roar, the claws slamming down into the dirt. The noise is enough to jolt Peter out of his trance. ]

Edited 2018-08-26 09:42 (UTC)

[Peter doesn't look at him, ashamed, hands fists at his sides. Quill's not the only one who feels sick. He can hear the other man's heartbeat, can hear too distinctly the speeding of his breaths and the crackle of the fluid in his knuckles as they go white. They're as loud as the Bulette, with his overly-sensitive hearing. He moves a step after him, but no more than that, and rambles with very little certainty on what to say:]

When you said to ask Mr. Stark, I did — and I... I swear, I would have found out how to tell you, I — I needed some time to figure out how to do it! I never meant to make anything worse or... or screw up your guys' chances back home, I just...!

[Against his attempts to avoid it, his voice cracks a little, hoarse and remorseful.]

Edited 2018-08-26 10:00 (UTC)

[ He's caught, for a long moment, between the sharp desire to run or to make the kid shut up by any means necessary.

Peter can't fucking listen to this. He can't fucking breathe. The kid knew. Stark knew, and neither of them told the Guardians a goddamn thing. And if they had, if they had even hinted at how devastating things had turned out, Peter would have never gone home, and he would have kept Gamora from going, too, once the opportunity presented itself.

They could have stayed in Riverview. They could have stayed in Riverview, and Peter wouldn't have watched Mantis and Drax crumble to dust, wouldn't have disintegrated, wouldn't have to now wonder if Rocket and Groot were safe. And Gamora—

The two of them would still—

Gamora wouldn't be—

With the slack in the webbing from freeing its first leg, the Bulette manages to free another, kicking out with a hind leg as it wrestles with the webbing. It roars out again, low and guttural, and the webbing starts to snap and give. ]

[Peter finally twists around, aiming another blast of webbing at the beast with an admittedly shaking hand. It's stronger than he gave it credit for; if the webs can't hold it (it's barely been any time at all, and it's just brute-forcing through already), there's gotta be a better solution. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed, before whipping around to look at Quill as he shoots.]

It's — It's not holding.

Pete, do you have something that can stun this thing?!

[Can't stop a big monster and ruined Quill's life even more, can't win lately, huh, Spider-Man?]

[ Peter's gaze slides past the kid to the monster, and for a long while, he just— blanks out. Freezes. Stares.

But eventually he shakes himself again, his hands wrapping around the grips of his blasters. ]

Get ready to move.

[ It's the only thing he can manage to say, and even then the words are croaked out.

Because sure enough, without any further explanation, Peter fires on the thing. The first few blasts burn through the webbing, letting the creature fully free itself. A different creature, one with some sense of self-preservation, might take the opportunity to flee. This monster, on the other hand, seizes the moment to shake out its limbs, righting itself and staring at the two of them.

And after that, it dives into the ground as if it were water and surges toward them at speed. It'll attempt to burst out of the ground and knock the two of them down (and, presumably, try to eat them), so maybe they should stay frosty. ]

[Peter yanks his mask back on, Karen questioning in his ear how everything's going — not so good, Karen, and yeah, they're still in danger. She starts a scan on the thing, since Peter can't for the life of him remember just exactly what this thing's made of; lucky him, leaping up and out of the way of the beast lunging out of the ground yields some results from his AI (and hey, his spider senses actually tingled there appropriately; thanks, spider sense).]

Behind the head!

[He webs a tree and begins a crescent-shaped swing sideways.]

When it drops its head low, there's a spot where the armor's—

[The bulette slams into the tree he's currently swinging on — damn, it's smart — and Peter's web snaps as he goes rolling along the ground like Quill had done on Spider-Man's arrival. He settles with a painful oof, rolling to his knees as the beast lunges back towards him. It definitely wants to eat the guy making the sticky netting stuff, but it also leaves room for Quill to aim for that patch of skin at the base of its skull.]

[ The Bulette seems to be focusing on the real threat – and under normal circumstances, Peter might be a little offended that the creature isn't taking him seriously.

As it stands, it's probably for the best. He's distracted. He's not on top of his game. He's clumsy and reeling and so fucking furious and—

He hears the kid's helpful hint like it's coming to him through fathoms of water. Still, he hears it all the same, and he shakes himself, moving to capitalize.

The kid goes rolling, and Peter takes a running start before he slams the heels of his palms against the triggers for his jet attachments. He jumps, the jets giving him an extra boost and taking him high into the air. His first few shots slam and dissipate against the creature's hard plating, but the next couple slam home into the soft point behind its head.

The Bulette roars out again, turning on a dime to snarl at Peter. But, you know, Peter's safe in the air, kept aloft by the jets on his boots.

... which is usually a boon against any other creature. This one, on the other hand, apparently hasn't skimped on leg day, and it leaps up, snapping its jaws at him. Peter manages to veer out of the way, but a wayward strike from the creatures claws sends him careening into the trunk of a tree. ]

[Ah, no no no no — Peter rolls to his feet, spider eyes widening on his mask as he notices Quill striking the tree and the creature that starts rushing toward him with an open mouth. He's pretty sure that the Guardian is fleshy and easy to chew through if something got its teeth on it. He growls out a no and launches himself on two webs toward the heart of the violence until he's landed right between the two, and when the jaws move to snap down he grabs the mouth and holds it open with shaking arms.

Blood pours down from the back of the creature's wounded head, and while Peter's feet are sticking resiliently against the ground, the earth itself begins to depress under the heels of his suit. He keeps the mouth wide open mid-bite, pushing hard to keep the soft interior showing. As much as he doesn't want the creature dead, he knows that it might not be an option, to spare it and run.]

You're way too — stubborn for your — own good —!

[ Peter slams gracelessly into the tree, his guns falling from his grip as he lands on the jungle floor. He bites back a groan as he shoves himself up onto all fours, shaking his head to clear out the stars. Good thing he was wearing his helmet: it took the brunt of the hit.

Let that be a lesson to you kids at home.

But the Bulette is barreling toward him, and his sluggish limbs are being really unruly now, as he tries to move out of its way. Soon enough, the kid is standing in its path, is stopping it in some insane display of strength—

Peter's seen that before, too. Shooting out webbing, yanking on Thanos' arm to keep him in place—

No. No. Okay. Flashbacks are— they're not welcome right now. (They're not welcome ever.) And Peter has to shake himself again, using the tree to support himself as he stands. His guns are too far away, and normally he'd just dive for at least one of them. But that's not really an option when the creature is right fucking there, when the kid is clearly struggling to keep it in check.

Before Peter left Riverview, the portal had vomited out some weird shit on him. He had honed it, at least a little, while he and Gamora were here, and he had lost it when he went home. It's back now, and he had tentatively tested it in the few days since his return.

It works best when he's angry. And god, is Peter angry.

So Peter slams on the triggers for his jets again, leaps high into the air to get up and over the creature's head while the kid is keeping him in place. He rears back a fist, blue flame enveloping his hand, and he plummets downward in a burst of blue fire, like something out of a comic book.

He drives his fist into that soft spot, feels flesh burst and give beneath his knuckles, feels bone snap and break. The creature stumbles back, screeching in pain, and Peter drives his flame-wreathed fist into that weak spot two more times to the harmonious sounds of squelching and cracking.

It reels and screams and staggers, and Peter holds on to an armored plate like he's on some fucked up bull ride. It seems to take forever for the thing to finally still, for it to finally collapse under its own weight and let out a few rattling breaths, but it does, at last. ]

[The jaws rear back and away from him, and he stumbles as he watches Quill go; holy shit. Holy shit? He didn't do anything crazy like that before...! He's got way more going on than he thought, but that can wait — really, it's small in the grand scheme of things, as he fires a few more grenades and they burst under the beast, keeping him at least from running off into the brush with Quill. It's stuck and bucking to try and unstick itself.

And then after the killing blow, it just collapses into the webbing entirely. A soft sigh escapes him at the last breaths; he doesn't like it, when something has to die. He doesn't like it when he can't resolve something with all the lives involved being spared.

... Maybe... save for Thanos.

He looks long and hard at Quill, unsure what to say. After a moment of hesitation silence:]

Are you good?

[He wasn't sure if he added even more wounds to the current selection. Hell, he isn't sure what kind of wounds he has to begin with. The ones from the fight on Titan, right? Or did he have injuries from... eroding into nothing? It's a scary thought.]

[ When the creature stops bucking, when it finally stills at long last, Peter slides off the thing in a half-controlled fall. He still lands heavily, staggering and falling back against the Bulette's plating, pressing his hand against his side again.

Ice. Lots of ice. All the ice in Antarctica.

He reaches up to drag a trembling hand through his hair, but he notices just in time that his hand is covered in dark blood and bits of viscera. He shakes it off halfheartedly, flicking off the globs of meat to the ground. ]

'M fine.

[ The unsteadiness of his voice is probably just the adrenaline crash. ]

That, um.

[ His gaze flicks over to the dead monster he's leaning against, half-cocooned in the webbing. ]

Good work.

[Ah. That's.]

Gross... but thanks.

[Well, this is a fucking mess. He looks at Peter, looks at the killed beast, and feels a little lost.]

Uh. I think that's enough excitement for one day. We... We should head back. Home.

To the apartments.

[Nailed it. Can't be any more awkward.]

No.

[ —wait, shit, that came out too quickly, too desperately, didn't it?

He brings his clean hand to shove his sweat-damp hair back, then to push off from the body. ]

No. [ A little more neutrally, that time. ] I'm fine. I'm good. I'm—

[ And when he shoves away from the Bulette's corpse to stand under his own power, he predictably stumbles and falls back again with a hissed out curse. ]

[He watches him for a moment, expression unreadable behind his mask.]

Is anyone ever fine when they say they're fine? Question of the century.

[He huffs, shaking his head and touching his hand to Quill's shoulder so he can be an appropriate crutch.]

... C'mon, man. Lemme get you home.

[Ask about her, a little voice inside says, mockingly, if he didn't know any better. Ask about Gamora.]

You... need to relax somewhere with ice and cushions.

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