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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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.

[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.]

[ 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.

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.]

Edited 2018-08-28 07:28 (UTC)

[ 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? ]

[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.]

[ 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.

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.]

[ 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. ]

[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...

Edited 2018-08-28 19:18 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

[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.

[ His lips part to deny the kid's assumption, but—

... No. Pete's got his number, and it's hard to deny it when it's so fucking obvious. He bows his head a little, falling quiet again.

It's difficult – it's so ridiculously – difficult thinking about Gamora and the all too obvious absence of her. Obviously she was most of his impulse control, was the one who kept him from getting too reckless or from doing anything insanely stupid.

(God, he misses her. He misses her so fucking much—)

Then, softly, though he forces levity into his voice, ]

When she gets here, you know I'm gonna rat you out, right?

[He stares at Quill for a long moment, looking alarmed. Confused. Miserable.

Maybe a little too vaguely, he says:]

Why?

You pinky swore.

[ Listen, the only reason why Gamora knows what a pinky swear is is because Peter got wildly drunk, once, and explained the tradition to her.

As with all things, he may have imbued it with a lot more gravity than completely necessary. ]

That constitutes a binding contract.

No, not that —

[His arms fold over his chest. He might as well be on a stage, talking to a sea of people, for all the nerves he's feeling right now. Despite this, he's looking at Quill like he has two heads, fully convinced of what he's saying, like it's the easiest math equation there is. Because it's obvious, isn't it? C'mon.]

Why would you want anything to do with me after this mess? This whole thing is on me. [Honestly, he expected Quill to just leave him in the forest, after he admitted what he did — or didn't do, in this case. Hell, he expected a very fair response of radio silence, like he'd done to them. So he sucks in a breath, feeling sick, and says (very nearly recites):] If you have the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don't? It happened because of you.

So who cares about the clock? When she comes back, she shouldn't want anything to do with me, either.

Edited 2018-08-30 09:59 (UTC)

[ Peter watches the kid, feels something bitter and cold twist in his chest at his words.

(Don’t engage, Stark had screamed at him, but the words might as well have been coming to him from miles away, for all that Peter heard them.

Because he was too busy wrangling with that shock, that fury, that grief, too busy seeing Gamora’s face in his mind’s eye – the way she smiles and laughs (quiet and barely there), the way she sighs at him when he says or does something ridiculous, the way she sometimes looks at him so unbelievably soft and gentle, and—

He needed to rip Thanos apart. Limb from limb. Needed to tear the very skin from his fucking bones—

Promise me you’ll kill me, Gamora had said, but he had hesitated. He had waited. And naively, he had hoped. He was a kid with a toy gun who had been chucked into a fucking war.

It happened because of you, Pete says.

The kid probably doesn’t realize how right he is.) ]

None of this is your fault.

[ And the words are cast quietly, croaked out, except Peter has no idea how the words manage to escape past the sudden tightness in his throat. He falls silent again, staring down at the bare floor, before he abruptly lurches to his feet. ]

I’m— I’ve gotta go.

[But it kind of is his fault?

Which is all moot, as his head completely blanks when Quill stands up and says that — and he holds out a placating hand the moment the guy seems like he wants to bolt, looking a little worried. Stupid him, digging back into awful shit he swore he'd let go today. He was supposed to bring him here to help him relax and ice up for five seconds-]

Nooonono, rest, dude. Seriously, it's fine. Sorry, I'll — It's dropped!

[Think, Peter, think.]

Wait. How about a compromise? You rest here for a few hours, and I'll sleep for a few.

Um. Binding contract, and all.

[The couch is perfectly nice for naps, he can totally nap, cool.]

[ He was heading unsteadily toward the door, but he pauses, takes a few rallying breaths.

(You promised—)

He shakes himself, straightening, putting on some of his usual confidence and levity. ]

I’m not gonna sleep in your weird, unmade bed.

[ That bed is bare and naked and uncouth, and considering the secondhand appearance of a lot of Pete’s furniture, who knows what or who’s been on that thing?

Peter’s just saying, if you took a blacklight to this place... ]

It’s all yours, okay? What’s the point in dishing out cash for your own place if you’re not gonna actually sleep in it?

... Then hang out on the couch or whatever. I'll nap on the mattress.

[He motions to the couch, where there's a little sign on the third cushion down that says "CAREFUL, THIS CUSHION SINKS!" There's also what is clearly the doodles of a bored pre-schooler on the other side of the couch — weird round blobs with arms that are probably mom, dad, and annoying baby brother. It's definitely a well-lived place... And probably in need of a scrub.

But the couch isn't too bad.]

C'mon, dude, you're really gonna make that whole walk back when I've got perfectly good ice packs and a couch? And just FYI, you could probably use the shower or sink to wash yourself off anyway, considering you look like a horror movie killer right now.

[You kinda have... blood... and gross bits... going on...

Y'know, from when you punched through a monster's spine.

He wasn't gonna comment or anything, but.

Yeah, he was.]

Edited 2018-08-30 23:23 (UTC)

[ He blinks at Pete for a second, like he’s completely oblivious. He can’t look that bad, can he? (Vanity, thy name is Peter Jason Quill.) A little self-consciously, he brings up a hand to scrub at his face, except—

... Oh.

He blinks down at his hand; by now, the blood has dried to a half-tacky, half-flaking mess. The worst of the chunks seem to have sloughed off during their trip here, which will surely be a happy surprise for an unfortunate sanitation worker, later.

And his mind races back. Gamora, coming home from a shift with the Perimeter Guard, trekking in monster goo that smeared on the floor, rubbed off onto the door frame, dried against the leg of her pants. Only one time, but of course Peter never let her live it down, because they had faced so many monsters before in their time as the Guardians of the Galaxy, and she would always come away miraculously spotless while everyone else trudged away covered in slime. So of course he would greet her as she came in from a shift, or when he’d come home after her, and make a show of inspecting the apartment and asking, Bring home anymore guts?

It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, the way every little thing sets him off, how every little stray thought launches him back like he’s been hit in the gut with a cannonball. It’s stupid, because Gamora’s going to be here. She’s coming back. She has to. And if she finds out he’s been brooding—
A slow shuddering inhale, followed by an equally unsteady exhale, and he drops his hand to his side. ]

... Maybe, uh. [ Hoarse again. Quiet. This time, he doesn’t bother to try to pull it together. ] Maybe a shower.

[Peter nods, expression soft.]

There's towels and stuff in a box in there, if you'd like. I'll just be out here, uh. Hanging out.

[But something sits poorly with him, and he's not sure if it's the right choice or not, but he reaches out and tugs on Quill's sleeve before he can fully vanish into the bathroom, if that's his want.]

B — Mr. Quill?

Um.

I know what it's like for people to suddenly not... be around when you expect them.

... You don't have to keep anything together around me, is all I wanna say. Just, like.

I get it.

[He remembers how completely destroyed the apartment was, after Ben died. It hasn't even been a year back home — but it's better now. He still can barely talk about him. But. At least he doesn't have to stop himself from calling out to him in the kitchen. He knows, now, that he'll never be there.

... He just hopes it's different, for Gamora.]

... I'm gonna... um, I'll be here. Don't forget to ice those.

[He points at Quill's ribs and then flops down on the half-busted couch, almost comically, aborting the situation so he's not dragging out a sensitive moment.]

Edited 2018-08-31 23:38 (UTC)

[ He lets the kid catch him. Seems only fair, considering Pete keeps extending all these little favors. Misplaced guilt, Peter knows. All those messages from the kid had flooded his comm a day late. And maybe the kid would have told them, if the portal hadn’t opened that day, if they weren’t told they needed to get there right at that moment while it was stable enough to send them back. Maybe the kid would’ve spilled the beans, if only they had stayed one day longer.

Regret and remorse, for not being faster, for not being smarter, for not pulling the trigger when he needed to.

Peter knows more than a few things about that.

He doesn’t look at the kid immediately, but after a few, long breaths, he turns, glancing over his shoulder at him. ]

What, I’m gone for a week, and you don’t wanna be Big Pete and Little Pete anymore?

[He glances over his shoulder, head cushioned on one arm.

Swallows once, as he considers what may or may not be an olive branch. If there was even any need for one. As far as Peter thinks, it's a courtesy offered regardless. And he looks a little thankful about that, because it's hard to feel like he's getting anything right lately.]

... I guess I'm just too cool for nicknames now, Big Pete, sorry.

[Heh.

He flops to sleep toward the backrest.]

Now hurry up, 'cus you're super gross.

[Medkit's in the backpack, you know the drill. Just don't snoop, he's got Top Secret Documents next to it, marked mysteriously as PETER'S RIVERVIEW TO DO LIST. Fucking nerd. Judging by the light snoring, he's at least keeping his pinky promise and is out cold.]

Edited (omfg i cant grammar good at all right when now what) 2018-09-01 00:05 (UTC)

[ Little Pete is goddamn lucky the blood is mostly dry, otherwise Peter would have totally flicked a little bit at the kid and possibly stained his weird, lopsided couch in the process.

“Little Pete”? More like “Little Shit.”

But he heads into the shower, tries to make it quick, except for a little while, he’s frozen. The blood and dirt spin away into the drain, and he stares at nothing as the hot water hits him, and— when Peter was a kid, when he was trailing after Mom and Gramps during frequent visits to the doctor, he’d fall slightly out of sync with the world, would end up numb and detached and—

He shakes himself when he feels himself falling into that familiar trance, dragging a hand down his face.

When he steps out, he’s— clean. Not better, and still slightly damp around the edges, but not in danger of leaving a rust-colored, flaking trail in his wake. The kid is passed the fuck out, so Peter moves quietly, going for the medkit – just to make it look like it was disturbed, not with any real intention to use what’s inside. He can dress his wounds at home.

He pauses, though, and nosy little fucker that Peter can sometimes be, he spies the list. Curiosity gets the best of him, and—

Yeah. He’s totally reading it. That’s what you get when give an asshole free reign with your stuff. When he’s done, he slips the list back in place, glancing over at the kid.

He hopes Pete made it through. He hopes he was one of the folks left on Titan, whoever that might be. Life is wildly unfair, and Peter knows that firsthand from being metaphorically kicked in the balls by it, over and over and over. But he hopes the kid is alright, in the end.

(Though with a list like this? Outlook not so good.)

After that, Peter will try to slip out silently. ]

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