Peter Quill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nostalgiabomb) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
riverviewlogs2018-08-24 07:35 pm
nostalgiabomb) wrote in riverviewlogs2018-08-24 07:35 pm
[ 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? ]
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? ]
no subject
[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.
no subject
(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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
(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?
no subject
[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.]
no subject
... 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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
“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. ]
no subject
... Make sure y'least ice those at home.
[IT'S A FUCKING TRAP—
No, it's not, but Peter peels one exhausted eye open to look skeptically at Big Pete from the couch.
His voice is a drawl, all stuffy with sleep.]
... Spider senses, y'know...
[And then he konks out again, just as quickly as he'd awoken.
Spider Mutant teenagers, am I right?]
no subject
Peter freezes in the doorway, still gripping the handle, and he turns back to catch the kid watching him.
But instead of stopping him, the kid settles right back into nappy-time, and Peter lets out a sigh that's equal parts relief and exasperation.
Brat.
After that, though, Peter shuts the door behind him with a soft click. ]