[ open; ] the city streets are empty now

[nostalgiabomb]

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? ]

Comments

[madeupnames]

... 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.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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.

[madeupnames]

[... 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.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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.

[madeupnames]

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...

[nostalgiabomb]

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.

[madeupnames]

... 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.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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.

[madeupnames]

[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.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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.

[madeupnames]

... 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.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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. ]

[madeupnames]

'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.

[nostalgiabomb]

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.

[madeupnames]

[He smiles a little, and while it doesn't reach his eyes, it's something.]

C'mon, we're totally teammates. You wouldn't shoot lil' ol' me.

... I have the tram fare.

[Obviously the sole reason.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter forces himself to put on a thoughtful look, something clearly feigned and 100% for show.

On a different day, maybe the act would have been more convincing, would've made the both of them laugh. As it stands, it's just— so obvious. Going through the motions, because Peter desperately needs something to feel normal. For once.

(Which Peter?

Probably both.) ]

Fine. You win this round, Gadget.

[madeupnames]

If you're trying to prove you're not old, you're making bad pop culture choices.

[He's not really keeping track of time very well, honestly. It's why he often ends up getting ready for school with a splitting headache after two or three hours of sleep. That's the point of this apartment, right? It's small but cozy and it keeps eyes away from his bad life choices. Like how he's running on fumes right now himself and hasn't had a normal night's sleep for weeks now.

The tram is a little crowded, but they make way for the tall guy who looks like he's not really at his Best today, and Peter's honestly too fried to try and make more conversation right now. His chin keeps dropping until he startles — and it happens a few times before they reach their stop, like he keeps falling himself into alertness again.

He hates that feeling. Falling in your head.]

— Here. We're here.

[He offers Peter his elbow, in case he needs an arm up.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The tram, crowded as it is, is quiet. Weirdly so, considering the press of people, but there's little more than the low hum of conversation, of the tram in motion, and Peter nearly falls asleep, himself.

Nearly, but he shakes himself awake, every time. Straightens in his seat and pressing his hand against his side. Hard.

Pain has a hell of a way of waking a guy up.

The kid isn't faring much better, it seems, and Peter watches him critically from the corner of his eye.

When the tram rolls to a stop, he doesn't even bother to put on his usual act. Instead, he takes the offered arm, grimacing as he stands. He leans against the kid as the walk off onto the station, and when the tram whisks its next batch of passengers away, Peter frowns down at the ground for a moment. Then, ]

Listen. Pete. Why don't you go on ahead? You look like you could use some sleep.

[ Hey, Kettle. Did you know you're black? ]

[madeupnames]

[Peter glances at him. Passingly.

And keeps them walking. See, he's fine. He's aces.

He's absolutely the Peter that can be working right now, like he does every afternoon.]

It's just around the block, man. Then I'll be out of your hair and back to work.

[His voice is light and breezy, but admittedly fake.

He figures that must be the thing, Quill trying to shake him off. He's been at it since he found him in the forest. Can't the dude just have a little patience? Sheesh. He doesn't want him running off without at least using his medical kit and the perfectly nice mattress left for him by the landlady.

The tall brick apartments spanning fourteen stories appears in view already — he's on the top floor, perfect for sneaking into at two in the morning.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Yeah. Peter should have expected that. ]

God, you’re stubborn.

[ And he grumbles it under his breath. (Also it takes one to know one.)

But they approach the building, and while Peter isn’t exactly at his best, the kid doesn’t seem to be, either. And that’s saying a whole lot of something that even Peter can see it, wildly distracted as he is.

(And he vaguely remembers, what feels like ages ago and just the other day, that Gamora mentioned finding the kid passed out on a tram as she was returning from a late night shift. So obviously Little Pete isn’t taking care of himself as well as he could be, and got himself the patented Gamora is Disappointed in You stares.

The memory feels like a punch to the gut, but he swallows that flash of pain down.)

As they’re entering the building, ]

Please tell me this place has an elevator.

[madeupnames]

One of my best qualities.

[Said in a way that suggests it's probably not one of his best qualities. He smiles just a little at the staircase, pausing in front of it for a painfully long moment before leading Peter just a few steps around the corner to the elevator. The ride up is a little concerning, because — when was the last time someone maintenanced this thing? But Peter just looks at ease as they ascend, holding Quill up as easily as he had out in the forest. He's got some pretty great stamina, you know, even if he's really sleepy.

Top floor, 1414. He fumbles with a long string in his side-pocket, which reveals two jingling keys, one of which he uses to unlock the apartment and push the door open with a foot, while he remains in zen-like balance as a crutch. Inside is pretty empty for the moment; other than the built-in stuff, there's just a busted up couch they left for him to keep and a mattress with some spare blankets piled on. Oh, and the 'Hang in there!' kitty poster that someone left, too. Why would you abandon such a thing? Terrible, really.

He almost calls out "I'm home", and feels kind of stupid for it.]

Uh. Welcome to my new dojo?

[Just as stupid, but not as personal.]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter, for his part, doesn’t seem all too bothered by the rickety elevator. He’s been in worse things. Nearly fell in one too, once, during a job that went sideways.

And it’s funny, but now that he doesn’t have adrenaline and endorphins coursing through him, he’s really starting to feel the aches of his encounters with the local wildlife settling in. His side fucking throbs, and he’s hoping that those bruised ribs have stayed bruised, rather than progressed into broken.

The apartment itself isn’t much to write home about, honestly, and Peter’s of two minds about the kid living on his own. For one, this Peter was doing much weirder and questionable shit at Little Pete’s age; for another, he’s pretty sure the kid shouldn’t be on his own.

But he keeps those thoughts to himself, for now. Instead, he echoes, ]

... “Dojo”?

[ In that tone that says, “Really, dude?” but without so many words. ]

[madeupnames]

[C'mon, man, he's a latchkey teen. He can handle it. Well, the basic stuff... anyway. He glances at Quill skeptically, leading him to sit on the sadly bare bed. It'll look a lot better once he can make it a little more personal. For now, maybe it's good that it's not — it's like Quill doesn't have to deal with anything that reminds him of jack shit. Right? Right.]

Hey, at least I'm not naming it after an 80's hair band or something.

[That's a jab at you, bud. He's not even aware of the whole Benatar thing, he just knows you're totally nostalgic and dorky, same as him. He plops his backpack down on the edge of the bed, and as soon as he knows Quill's sitting, he very nearly collapses backward onto the half-busted couch, but thinks better of it and leans on the wall near it instead.

One seat sinks way too far (like it's a monster eating you), but he kind of likes it.]

The bathroom's that door, there's some popsicles in the freezer but I have no idea where they came from — um, and... [He yawns into his hand.] Um... medical kit's in the backpack, crammed in the top... I should, uh. I've gotta go finish my rounds... but you can stay however long you wanna. I'm not exactly living here yet, so...

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter should argue more. Should insist that the kid stay in his own apartment and leave Peter to his devices, except—

He sits heavily on the bare mattress, grimacing and grunting with discomfort. Ice. A lot of fucking ice, still, and he doubts the kid has that here, bare bones as his place is. Also, he is absolutely not going to ice his ribs with mystery popsicles.

He catches the way the kid yawns, and his eyes narrow, and—

Four years home, one week here. That's how much time has apparently passed. And it's still weird, reconciling what he knows and what he remembers. The lens shifts a lot, moves in and out of focus. Last week, he and the Guardians were fighting off security drones.

But also last week, he was in Riverview, frowning down at the hilarious joke he had sent the kid, only to receive a lackluster "haha" in response.

So it's... weird.

But at length, he looks down at the floor, clearing his throat. Mentally preparing himself, it seems, and it's all to obvious why when he says, ]

Before we left, Gamora told me she caught you asleep on a tram.

[ It's... hard. Talking about her. It's really fucking hard. But it shouldn't be, because she's going to be back, any day now. Any second. ]

[madeupnames]

[He glances at Quill, guilt in his weary eyes before he looks at his shuffling feet.]

... Yeah. I, um... I pinky promised I'd look at the clock more.

[He chuckles weakly, not looking up.]

But you know me. My promises are shit. And working is... easier thank thinking about anything else. Which I guess is what you were doing outside the wall, s-so. You probably get that part.