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? ]

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[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.

Don't.

[ And he shoves the kid's hand off, the movement sharp enough to make his side pulse in protest. He hisses, folding around the injury briefly, before forcing himself to straighten. ]

Just— don't. Okay? Don't. I said I was fine. I don't need to go back.

[He bites his lip, his hand dropping to his side.]

I'm not leaving you out here to do — whatever you're doing.

If you're not going, I'm staying, too. I'm perimeter guard, too, so might as well.

[Hope you wanted a kid trailing after you in your moment of crisis, Pete.]

It's not— it's not "whatever." I'm working.

[ couldn't you tell by the unnecessary amount of dead monster's he's left in his wake?

Peter is level-grinding. Come on. ]

The last thing I need right now is to babysit you on top of it all.

And I'm working too, as a member of the guard. You needed help here, and I gave it.

In case you didn't notice, you didn't have to babysit anyone just now.

[He motions to the thing he totally helped Quill take down, and is more than happy to bicker with Quill if it means them continuing to avoid the ginormous freaking elephant in the room stomping on them. It gives him incentive to be a good enough actor to pretend nothing is wrong (it very much is).]

And for the record? It's a dumb idea to go patrolling for trouble when you're injured! That's workplace safety 101!

I said I was fine.

[ This comes out louder than he means, sharper than he means, but he can't feel it in him to feel guilty about it.

Getting slammed into a tree did him very few favors, apparently, and using those fucked up abilities has drained him pretty terribly. Whatever weird abilities the Riverview portal gave him reminded him way too much of Ego, and he used them as sparingly as he could. Which, predictably, means he has absolutely no finesse. It's all or nothing.

But that's fine. It worked. Peter's fine. He's totally fine. He can do this. He's fine.

This time when he shoves away from the corpse, he stays on his feet, though he has to stagger a step or two before he can find his balance.

Aaaand then his legs buckle beneath him. ]

[He figured this might happen, considering how awful he's been moving. His senses tingle when he staggers — someday he'll figure out how these stupid powers work — and rushes forward to catch him before he can face-plant the ground. He catches him with most of his back, because Peter Quill is way broader than him, but despite this he hefts Quill up on his back like he weighed as much as a feather.

It's not a very noble and graceful pose, slouched on a teenager's back like nothing.]

Okay, dude, you're going home before you lose some brain cells meeting a rock.

You can't even freaking walk right now. You're lucky you're not going to the hospital first.

[... You're not gonna thrash and resist a piggyback, are you?]

[ He is absolutely going to thrash and resist a piggyback, because Peter still has some sense of dignity.

Just kidding! No, he doesn't. ]

Put me down, you little prick.

[ He needs to get his guns, and he needs to just take a breather. He just needs to work out the weird, ugly thing writhing in his gut with a few more acts of wanton violence— ]

[Quill, you're really not strong enough (especially right now) to break out of a piggyback.]

Will you cut it out?!

[But if he's not gonna stop thrashing around... Peter's gonna just let him thrash right off him.

How're your sea legs, buddy? You're sailing toward that floor again.]

[He pulls his mask off, looking frustrated as he looks at Peter.

Of all the stupid things to do, making everyone else worry while you're out blasting monsters...!]

You should be at home with Mantis and Groot and Gam—!

[He stops, cuts himself off, and stares while his brain catches up. Because —

If Gamora were here, would he even be able to get away with this shit?]

[ Peter lands gracelessly on the ground, grunting out when it jars his side again.

Ice. So much ice. A whole lot of fucking ice until he can't feel his right side for the rest of the day.

He sits himself up, lips parting to snap back at the kid, but then—

He just. Has to go and say that, doesn't he? Because even if he cuts himself off, it'd take a bigger idiot than Peter goddamn Quill to figure out what Little Pete was a half-second away from saying.

This Peter is still wearing his mask, but it doesn't hide the way he completely freezes, the way he just stares, the way he stops breathing for at least three full seconds. He feels something lurch in his gut, cold and bitter, until it climbs up his throat, until it feels like he's choking.

(What does this monster have to mourn?

... Gamora.)

But, hey, here's a silver lining for both of them:

At least Little Pete doesn't have to ask the question he's been dying to ask since they crossed paths. ]

[His hands drop to his sides, and he feels a new trill of grief travel up his spine. It can't compare to Quill's, no, but he's reminded of failing his friend — someone who acted motherly and kind and stern, who gave him shoes when he couldn't afford them, who tried to figure out what was wrong with him on that tram (and he couldn't say you, you dying is what's wrong). His hands drop to his sides and he stares back while his expression settles into something apologetic.]

I — she... wouldn't want you out here, throwing yourself into fights when you, when you can't even stand up straight. C'mon, Quill. This won't make you feel any better. Just... Please? Let people help you. I can help.

[ It reminds him way too much of his childhood. Sitting in hushed hallways, as footsteps echoed off the hard tile. Gramps, whispering with a doctor while the doctor shook his head and Gramps dragged a hand down his face.

“Smile, sweetheart,” well-meaning relatives would tell Peter. “Smile, honey. Your mom wouldn’t wanna see you sad.”

He was too young, back then, but now, he’s old enough – and asshole enough – to croak out, ]

Don’t tell me what she’d want.

[ Because you know what else Gamora would probably want? To be here to tell Peter off for his recklessness in person.

But— she will be here, he reminds himself. She’ll be here. Any day, any second now. Gamora will be here, and so will Drax and Rocket, because this is just— where they end up, right? Peter and Mantis and Groot are here, after all, so— why wouldn’t the others show up, too? They need each other, and the universe is pretty fucked up, sure, but it can’t be that fucked up to keep them apart. ]

She’ll be here. Okay? She’ll be here soon. So stop—

Don’t talk about her like— like she’s—

[ His voice cracks, and he feels his throat close up again, and he feels his eyes water and sting behind his mask, and his hand shakes as he brings it up to push back his hair, and god, he wants to puke or scream or tear something apart with his bare fucking hands. ]

[It's not like Peter can't relate to the feeling. Not in the same way, but he's worn his own masks and had his own moments of distress — whether it was demanding his parents when things didn't feel right as a kid, or when he snuck out night after night to avoid the uncle-shaped chasm in his small family. If I just do this, is the thought, Then something good will surely change everything bad happening. But he also never had to face this kind of concept.

The idea that his parents or Ben could come back. He'd always accepted it for what it was, when the concept of death had finally sunk in. Gamora's dead; she wasn't a short time ago. Guilt is still curdling in his stomach, though, because all of this could have been avoided... It could have been... No, don't think about that. Think about how many goddamn hugs you've gotten lately. Yeah, that's a starting point.

He crouches down and pulls Quill into a hug before he can keep rambling.]

She'll be back. She'll definitely be back to kick your ass for being stupid. Okay?

And — and Mr. Stark'll figure something out back home. And he'll get you guys back. Okay? He'll figure out a way to reverse it, because he's crazy smart and - and the Avengers aren't all gone. But you can't just get yourself beat to heck out here—

[ Peter stiffens when the kid pulls him into a hug. Tactile as Peter tends to be, hugs haven’t really been a thing for Peter, except in the most extreme circumstances. Go figure, right?

When the kid starts talking, starts agreeing with him, tension bleeds out of Peter’s frame by slow degrees. Right. Right, Gamora will be here. She’ll be back. That’s all that Peter really cares about, because whatever happened back home, that’s fucked up. That’s really fucked up, yeah, and he wants someone, anyone, to give Thanos everything he deserves and then some, and then to burn the body and dance and piss on the remains. And after that, maybe they can reverse whatever it was Thanos had done. Maybe they can’t.

Doesn’t really matter to Peter, honestly. He’s dead out there. He’s not dead here.

Because the rules are different in Riverview. Folks can be snatched from the jaws of death. It happens all the time. Hell, it happened to him, and that well-meaning orientation representative had coyly explained that he had been through “an ordeal” in place of telling him he had blown away like a cloud of dust, like that song by Kansas.

Most of the Guardians are dead out there, though Peter doesn’t know what happened to Groot or Rocket. He’s too afraid to ask, honestly. They won’t be dead here, and Peter doesn’t mind staying here for the rest of ever if it means the others will be here, too.

(So where the fuck are they?)

At length, he sags against the kid – not relaxed, but clearly exhausted. He reaches up with an unsteady hand to hit the trigger for his mask. It crawls away from his face in blue light, hiding itself back into the device tucked behind his ear. ]

Right.

[ Quietly, unsteadily – and a little uncertainly, even if he tries to hide it. He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his clean(er) hand. If his face seems a little wet, if his next inhale is a little sharp (something one might more accurately characterize as a sniff), he’ll thank the kid not to point it out. ]

Yeah. Sorry. You’re right.

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