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

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[ 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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[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.

[He laughs, humorlessly, chin hooked over Quill's shoulder.

He'd be lying if he said it wasn't partly for him.]

First time I've been right in a while.

[His voice is small and lost when he speaks again.]

... M'sorry, Big Pete. I didn't mean for this to happen.

I just wanted you guys to be happy.

[ The apology is answered with little more than a grunt.

He doesn’t— he doesn’t know how to answer that yet. He doesn’t think he can forgive that, because if the two of them had known, it would have changed everything. If they had known they’d be walking straight to their deaths, they would have never left.

—or maybe they would have gone anyway. Maybe they would have marched through that portal, no matter what. Maybe they would have thought they could change things, could fix things, by making some lofty plans in Riverview to take back with them. Maybe they would have gone home, heads held high, with the impossible hope that they could set things right.

Peter has no fucking clue what might have happened. What he’s at least mostly sure on is, ]

... You should’ve told us.

[ And the words are pitched low, without much inflection.

Sounding empty is probably better than sounding furious, right? ]

... I know.

[His voice cracks a little, and he can't pull away to look at whatever Quill's face is right now.]

I screwed up. But I'll... Mr. Stark'll make it right.

If you don't wanna talk to me 'til then, I'd understand. [He leans back finally, hands on Quill's shoulders.] I can't promise anything 'cus all my promises have seriously sucked so far, but I'm gonna try to go back and warn you guys. I'll do whatever I can, and even if it doesn't work, it's better than just hiding out here. I'm still behind by, like, two years. So there could be something I can figure out.

[And it's more than that, really.

He feels like he doesn't deserve to hide out and live, when they had to go back and die — all because of him. So he could at least even the damn playing field and suffer a little. It's his responsibility to not be a chickenshit and just — own his mistakes, and face his music, right? Right?

He's not gonna tell him as much.

He doesn't need to know this part, of that he's actually sure.]

Edited (omg typos ) 2018-08-27 19:27 (UTC)

[ It’s this Peter’s turn to huff out a humorless laugh, scrubbing at his face again. ]

I dunno that that’s an option. I didn’t remember a goddamn thing, when I went back. I doubt you will, either.

[ It’s an ugly admission to make, admittedly, and something he’s been grappling with since he woke up in that hospital bed. ]

I met you guys back there. You and Stark and Strange. Thor, too, I guess. [ Thor was a footnote, obviously. But this is all information the kid already knows, so Peter just forges on. ] I didn’t remember any one of you. Didn’t even feel a little familiar.

I had all these— I had all these plans. All these ideas. We had months to think about what we were gonna do about Thanos, how we were gonna take him down. I fucking trained, and— all of it was just— gone.

[ Another shuddering breath, and his hand drops to his lap. His gaze flicks up to the kid briefly, eyes bloodshot and skin pale from lack of sleep, from exhaustion, from the ache of injuries he refuses to let heal. ]

It’s a nice thought. It really is. But don’t promise me shit when I already know you can’t keep your word.

[... He probably would have preferred to be stabbed with an actual knife right now, honestly.

But he couldn't say he didn't deserve being swatted out of that optimistic air. He's let them down on just about anything he offered them, didn't he? Peter swallows hard and just accepts it.]

... Y-yeah. Yeah. You're right.

[He sits in the silence that follows, looking at his hands.

Trying to piece something tangible together.]

Then I — I'll go home to help as many people as I can in New York. And to see my aunt and my friends, while I still can. And if there's a way to remember, hopefully I'll remember. [He rubs at his eyes, refusing to let Quill's words completely tear him down while he's in his company. He nudges an arm under Quill's.] C'mon, you need to get home. If Gamora comes back and you're out here half-dead, th — that's a really crappy welcome.

[ He swallows around the lump in his throat when the kid says Gamora’s name.

Peter’s been careful, talking around all of the other Guardians to avoid mentioning them by name. “The others.” “The guys.” “Those assholes.” Anything to keep from calling them directly to his mind. And it’s selfish of him, he knows. It’s fucked up and unfair, but if he lets his mind linger, then he thinks of—

(Rocket, looking at him with disdain as he backed into the pod. Drax, with terror on his face, when Peter had never seen the guy afraid. Gamora, with tears in her eyes and resignation in her smile.

I love you. More than anything.)

He scrubs at his face again, trying desperately to hold himself together. He’s not going to lose it in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. He’s not going to fall apart next to a goddamn land shark corpse. He’s not going to let himself become a mess while the kid sits here and watches.

He’s not. He’s not. He’s stronger than this. He’s—

He needs to keep it together, because Groot and Mantis are back at the apartment, and they’re terrified, and they’re so terribly fucking sad, and he needs to— he needs to be the captain. To be the anchor. To be the steady one they look to while everything seems to fall apart. To be the one they turn to when they need someone to lean against. He needs to take care of them. He needs to—

He desperately presses the heel of his clean hand against his eyelids again, until he sees wild bursts of colors. His breathing turns ragged for a few seconds that drag on into forever, it feels like. ]

Not the apartment.

[ Strangled, thick. He can’t let the others see him crumbling away like this.

And more than that, Gamora’s belongings are still everywhere, and he keeps catching himself raising his head with Gamora’s name on his lips, wanting to ask her, “Hey, have you seen my—?” The ghost of her lingers in the place, casts a shadow over everything.

She’s coming back. Peter knows this with absolutely certainty. She’s coming back, but until then, he can’t— he can’t deal with the absence of her. Not right now. ]

Anywhere else. Just— not there.

Alright. Umm.

[He struggles to think of somewhere. And more than that, he really needs to get his backpack off that tree he stuck it to; that can be along the way, and it's got all kinds of medical stuff in it because he's paranoid as heck. Alright. Special tree first, then he can hobble him somewhere that is not his room. But the community housing is not private, isn't really somewhere a guy can just chill out and stew in his grief and injuries. And Quill hates hospitals, so he can't do that.]

I have a place I'm moving into, um. It should be good enough for you to hang out at? I haven't moved in yet or anything, so there's just a mattress and some basic stuff it comes with, like a microwave and sink, and all that... If you wanna hang out there and rest for a few hours...

[Look at him, he's moving on up. Slowly.

Or maybe it was just getting hard to keep an identity and share a building with people he failed the shit out of, and now has a way to be an insomniac outside of people's watchful eyes. But like. Bucket list, man... He at least has to own his own place for a little bit if he does end up going back.]

... This could be a little faster and less painful of a trip if you let me carry you on my back. Just... saying...

You put me on your back, and I’ll punch your head clean off.

[ And Peter could probably do it, now that he has his stupid super powers again. He’s already making a giant concession in heading back into the city proper, Little Pete. Don’t test him.

He picks himself up with a little difficulty, still slightly unsteady, but he keeps himself upright long enough to fetch his guns, to click them back into place in his holsters at his hips. He scrubs at his face again; there’s an old abrasion curling around his left eye – something from back home, most likely, rather than their recent encounter with the Bulette, considering it’s dark and scabbed-over. His eyes feel gritty, and he feels completely drained and exhausted, and he knows he needs sleep, but he just— can’t.

He shakes himself, letting his arm drop to his side, and he straightens, tries to adopt more of his usual confidence. ]

After you.

... Uh, right. If you say so.

[He leads the way, and definitely glances back a lot. Mainly because the dude almost face-planted literally a few minutes ago, and he isn't about to let him fall over again. He's got his senses locked down, ready for the slightest trill of danger along his arms. Maybe it's a bad idea to wander without his mask, but it feels wrong — like he's hiding under it. His thoughts swirl all the while — Quill on the verge of tears, Tony hopeless on his knees, Athena pulling him into a crushing hug.

"Sometimes shit just goes bad, and not you or an adult or anyone could have stopped it. It's not always about doing better. Sometimes it's just about... about surviving, you know?"

He shivers as they walk. They're nearly at the tree when he speaks up again.]

... Big —

Mr. Quill. Can I ask you just one question? Then we can just... drop it.

[ Peter, in the meanwhile, is furiously keeping his mind off of everything. He staggers more often than not, having to reach out and grab onto a tree trunk for support, but he refuses to fall.

And as he walks (stumbles, more like), he’s thinking over the plots of old movies. Paying careful, unwarranted attention to each step he takes and to their surroundings. With the path he forged on the way out, with the screams and roars of the Bulette, there’s a pretty high chance that none of the other monsters are likely to mess with them for a while.

But, hey. It pays to be mindful.

He’s running through the lyrics of “Juke Box Hero” when the kid calls for him, and he looks up. The change of nicknames isn’t lost on Peter, but they’re not feeling at their best, right now. It’s a subject he’ll tackle later, if he has a mind for it.

For now, he lets out an acknowledging sound. ]

Can’t promise I’ll answer.

[He breathes in, breathes out, and feels stupidly childish in retrospect.

Too late now. He looks back at him, chewing his lip.]

Did I do the best I could?

[He just. He wants to know he really tried, really gave it everything he had.

At least he could have that.]

[ The question catches Peter completely off-guard, and he looks at the kid for a long moment, startled and disbelieving, all at once. ]

Yeah. [ And the word escapes him on an exhale, like it’s punched out of him. ] Of course you did.

[ And it strikes him, then, how fucking young Pete is, how wildly out of his depths he must feel, rolling the dice on saving the whole goddamn universe and realizing way too soon that he loses.

Peter doesn’t know what happened to the kid, after he faded away to nothing. He hopes he made it through that fucked up game of Russian Roulette. He hopes that the kid survived, that he’s going to be part of the team that takes down Thanos, once and for all.

He pauses again, leaning up against a tree. They had gotten close to getting that glove off – Peter’s plan, his idea, and it had all been going so well. And then he had Thanos right where he wanted him, and he knew he was going to wring the information out of Thanos’ hypnotized mind, and they were going to get the glove. They were going to kick the guy’s ass. They were going to get Gamora back with a new toy at their disposal, and they were going to be big goddamn heroes—

And then everything fell apart.

Peter screws his eyes shut again, taking an unsteady breath. Then, ]

We just... all of us. We weren’t enough.

... There's still people left. They'll do it, even if we couldn't.

[He says it with the same desperate certainty that Quill has, when he says Gamora's coming back. Peter, he has faith — he has faith in whoever's left. It stands to reason that if Mr. Stark's alive, there's hope. It stands to reason that there are people left from the team on Earth, people in the deep reaches of space who are pissed off and angry.]

Besides, Thanos pissed off an entire universe. He's not gonna have a peaceful death.

[He leaps upward, disappearing into the brush for a moment. When he lands again, it's with his rather heavy and full backpack in his hands. He's already dragging out his civilian clothes, not bothering to take off the suit as he starts pulling his layers back on. It'll be kinda warm, but whatever.]

There are a lot of eyes on this. Lot of hurting people, lot of strong people, lot of angry people. And smart people. Insanely smart people who can undo what he did.

[ He keeps himself propped up against the tree as the kid makes himself decent, as he offers those words of reassurance.

Peter doesn’t think there’s a way to undo all of that. Peter thinks that there are rules that make the universe work, that death is death, that it’s final.

But, on the off-chance that the survivors put together some resistance group like the kids in Red Dawn. On the off-chance Thanos wiping out half the universe was reversible. On the off-chance that they find a way to bring back everyone who got dusted—

What does that mean for Gamora?

Peter doesn’t speak any of that aloud, though. Instead, he gives the kid a quick nod. ]

Yeah. You’re... you’re probably right.

[ Because he’s pretty sure that’s what the kid needs and wants to hear. ]

'Course I am.

[A pause.

Then he stands a little straighter at that, and nods toward the direction of the wall.

If Big Pete can pretend to be remotely optimistic, Little Pete can at least keep a stiff upper lip.]

Think you can make it, old man?

You get to the tram, you get to sit it off for fifteen minutes.

I will actually shoot you.

[ This, as he's forcing himself away from his support, as he's taking a few dogged steps toward the wall. ]

I almost did, once. Don't test me.

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