riverviewlogs | ( open ) did you do it?

Entry tags:

( open ) did you do it?

who: gamora and YOU
what: returning from an infinity war canon update and Trying To Deal
when: beginning of september through the middle of the month
where: around the quarantine
warnings: infinity war spoilers, mentions of death, probably body horror, etc etc etc

ɪ. ᴀ ʀᴜᴅᴇ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇɴɪɴɢ

[ Everything hurts.

It’s been a long time since Gamora could safely say “everything hurts,” but when she jolts awake in a hospital bed (familiar and strange at the same time), her whole body feels like one big bruise. She sits straight up, ignoring the way she hurts, trying to shake away the insistent pain.When she reaches to touch the pounding point on the back of her head, her fingers find dried blood, what seems like a scabbed-over trauma, though she can’t quite figure out how—

It hits her like a blow to the gut.

Vormir.

The cliff.

The Soul Stone.

Thanos.

Gamora covers her mouth with a hand before she makes herself sick thinking about it. She shakes on the small cot, her eyes wide, sounds trapped behind her palm as four years of memories war with the realization of where she is.

Riverview. The Quarantine. She knows this place, she knows this hospital, but she— hadn’t. She had forgotten all about it, and she’s four years older now. She’s four years older, and she’s—

When an attendant comes to check on her, Gamora nearly strangles them on instinct alone, reacting to the adrenaline in her system screaming fight fight fight fight fight run—

She’s a mess, but when she grounds herself enough to let the poor attendant go (coughing, choking, looking absolutely startled and taken aback), she bolts. Her familiar leather coat is covered in dried green blood. Her hair is matted with it, the smell of ancient dust clinging to her skin, scapes across her face, her hands still left to heal. But she doesn’t care. She can walk, she can run, so she isn’t going to bother with the 24 hours of supervision.

If they want to try and hold her, they can.

Good luck.

She makes it blocks away from the hospital before she finally stops running, and she grabs at her shirtfront with trembling fingers as she gasps for breath, still quaking, still processing, still raw and running on the adrenaline of remembering what it felt like to be dragged to the edge of a cliff and thrown. She finds the spot on her stomach where she’d tried to stab herself, only to lose her dagger to bubbles, but that glimmering silver knife is back in her belt, untouched.

With a shout that fills the night air, she rips the knife away and hucks it as far from herself as possible.

No, no, no.

She’s not paying attention to where she throws the knife (fortunately retracted), so there’s every possibility she’s thrown it at someone or it’s simply clattered across the pavement, remaining unscratched and unscathed with a glittering red jewel that seems to mock her from a distance. ]

ɪɪ. ʙᴜsɪɴᴇss ᴀs ᴜsᴜᴀʟ

[ Days later, and Gamora is more composed. Not settled, not happy, not relieved – but composed. She’s cleaned up, put back together, and reinstated as captain of her squad again. Some might reasonably argue that she’s not ready for duty again, but she wouldn’t allow herself to be benched.

She needs something to do. She needs something to keep her mind off of everything that spins through her head when she lets it.

Which is why she’s spending extra time at the training facilities, running some poor unfortunate souls through some unusually rigorous drills.

When an obstacle course is cleared for the second time, Gamora stands waiting at the finish line, her arms crossed, her face impassive and unimpressed. She jerks her chin back to the start of the course. ]

Run it again.

ɪɪɪ. ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟɪᴅᴀʏ sᴘɪʀɪᴛ

[ Oh, hey, it’s Dragosta. Gamora remembers the festival well, though it’s still strange to try and reconcile her memories of home with her memories of the Quarantine. Unlike vague curiosity the first year around, Gamora looks on with fondness in her eyes (just the faintest softening in her expression, barely readable to a stranger) as she plucks up a little bottle with red thread inside of it. The woman minding the display offers it to her with a warm smile, but Gamora turns her down.

She doesn’t need it.

She leaves the table of jars and spells behind, instead heading back to community housing. She makes it most of the way back, navigating through a crowd, before—

Those damn fairy lights.

She finds her way suddenly impeded, and when she pushes her hand against the invisible enclosure, she downright glares when she can’t move forward.

Sorry to the person who happens to be stuck with her, because your fellow prisoner looks particularly murderous. ]

ɪᴠ. ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇʀ sᴜɴᴋᴇɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ

Has anyone returned home through the portal and then come back to the Quarantine? Did you lose time? How much?

ᴠ. ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

( ooc: you know the drill. hit me with anything and everything or send me a pp @poprocks to work something out! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ That finally shuts him up.

The resignation. The tone bordering close on bitterness. It’s like a slap across his face, because—

(He promised. And he failed. And that’s just how it is, isn’t it? Everyone he loves, everyone who’s ever loved him, they just— slip away out of his grasp. They die, and they die reaching for him, and nothing he ever does is good enough, nothing he ever does can stop it, and—

And it’s him, isn’t it? It’s him. He’s a fucking jinx, and Mom had told him, over and over and over, and at the time he had thought it was a compliment, only now he knows it must’ve been a curse—

“You’re so much like your daddy.”

It’s Peter’s fault. It’s all his fault.)

His hands still in her hair, still unsteady in spite of the way he tries to control the tremor, but he— falls out of sync, for a second. His mind goes blank as he tries to mentally reset, as he tries to control himself, as he struggles desperately to hold it together.

Keep it together. Don’t fall apart. Time to be captain.

A slow, shuddering inhale, and he works out the last of the dried blood. ]

You’ve got me. And Groot. And Mantis.

[ Quietly, gently. ]

We’ve got each other. That’s not nothing.

[ She feels the faint quaking of Peter's hands in her hair, and—

She twinges with guilt. Realistically, she doesn't blame him. He did what she asked him to, and he kept his promise, and she can't fault him for that. They were outgunned from the word "go," and she knew they were out of their depth.

They never stood a chance.

She reaches up to catch his wrist, gently squeezing as he keeps working his fingers through her messy hair. ]

... I know.

[ Because she has them. She has him. They made it here, and she knows that isn't insignificant, but they'd spent the entire year they'd been in Riverview preparing for going home. But it hadn't mattered.

But— maybe that doesn't matter. Because now they're here, and maybe they failed, maybe they lost, but they got kicked back through the portal to have another chance to live their lives in the Quarantine. ]

What—

[ She shakes her head minutely, letting her forehead fall against his shoulder. ]

What do we do now?

[ He goes still again, pressing her against him. (Solid and warm and there, impossibly there, and he knew she’d be back. He knew it with the same certainty that he knew water was wet, that fire was hot. She was going to be back, and—

Here she is.)

But what now? That’s the fucking question. What do they do now? There’s nothing they can do, is there? This is... this is it. There’s a giant fucking dumpster fire back home, and for all Peter knows, Groot and Rocket and Nebula still might be in the thick of it, and even if they need their help, there’s nothing they can do.

He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired. His side still aches with the dark bruising along his ribs, earned from the fight with Thanos. He feels hollowed out, he feels— two steps out of reality. He feels—

(sitting silently in a hospital hallway. “I’m not in love,” the voice croons in his ears, while his thoughts drain out of his head, and—) ]

... We rest.

[ That’s all they can do, isn’t it? ]

We recover. We... we regroup. And we... we just—

[ He falters, uncertain, searching for an answer. But after a few breaths, he bows his head. ]

... I don’t know.

[ Her other arm slides around his back, moving up to the nape of his neck to squeeze down, to hold him closer. ]

I was so scared.

[ She whispers this out against his skin, the words almost lost under the beat of the water falling over them both. She was terrified – for Peter, for the others, for herself (though herself, least of all) – and it feels like her worst fears came to fruition.

But now... it's over. She's dead, and soon, half of the universe will be back home. And there's nothing left to do about it.

(How can she accept that?) ]

[ That hurts, worse than any gutshot, than any knife in his gut, and Peter freezes against her for a full five seconds.

Gamora has— she’s never said that, in all their time together. She’s always been fearless, she’s always been so fucking unflappable, and Peter found himself leaning on her when his own resolve flagged. He may have been the leader, he may have called a handful of the shots, when the Guardians submitted to it, but Gamora was— he always took more than a few cues from her, and—

His fault. His fucking fault. If he had been faster, if he had been smarter, if she had just done as she asked, she would have— Thanos wouldn’t have—

He spurs himself into motion at last, wrapping his arms around her, ignoring the twinges of protest from his battered body, burying his face against her hair. His voice seems to have slipped away, but the desperate way he holds her speaks volumes for him.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. ]

[ She's startled by how suddenly Peter winds himself around her, but she melts into him, her face pressed to his throat, her free arm coming around to hold his waist so impossibly tight.

(If she holds him close enough, maybe neither of them will slip away.)

She stands like that with him, not moving under the warm water beating over their shoulders and her hair, and she doesn't want to move. She never wants to pull away.

(It's absurd. Unrealistic. But she can't help it right now.) ]

I love you.

[ Another soft murmur as her lips move over his skin. ]

I'm—

[ She stops on a hitching breath, that I'm sorry of her own hanging in the air. ]

[ It’s funny, really, how often Peter’s found himself to be the one in control, over the past few years. Sure, often enough, folks had to rein him in, had to help him find his center, but four years of being leader of their little ragtag band of heroes has helped him learn to find it on his own. ]

I love you, too.

[ And the answer comes to him as easily as anything; something grounding that he so desperately needed.

He centers himself while Gamora clings to him, as her throat catches on the words she’s trying to say. (He thinks he knows what it is, and he doesn’t want to hear it. She has nothing to apologize for. They did everything right, didn’t they? But Thanos just... Thanos outplayed them, like Gamora had always feared he would.

And if he lets her say it, then the words will spill out of him, will fall from his lips like guts from a gaping wound, and if that happens, then his control will slip, and that’s not what Gamora needs.)

Peter takes a few rallying breaths to forces himself to regain control after that little frantic burst, and he reaches over to shut off the water. Reluctantly, he pulls back, steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist, though it does little for the fact that he’s still dripping wet. He plucks up a second, wrapping it around her shoulders, and offers a hand to help her step out. ]

C’mon. You’re gonna get pruney.

[ Hearing "I love you" is comforting, if only because there had been a big part of her that thought she'd never get the chance again after Thanos got his hands on her. She thought that last moment together was all they would have, that she'd die there on Knowhere, that she wouldn't see Peter again, and, well... she didn't.

Not back on their world.

Finally, the water is shut off and a towel is wound around her, and Gamora reaches up to hold it in place as she takes Peter's hand, stepping out onto the bathmat. Her hair drips wetly on the floor, but at least the water is clear, no reminders of the pool of blood or—

She doesn't need Peter to hold her up, and she heads out of the bathroom, back to the familiarity of the room they'd shared with Groot. It's odd being here again, instead of their private quarters on the Quadrant, and she has to look around, take it all in, before she heads to the dresser to find something to wear.

(She goes for one of Peter's shirts, a pair of her own cloth shorts.) ]

[ Gamora wanders past him, which is— fine. She can take care of herself, he knows. And the fact that she's moving, getting herself reacquainted with the space—

That's good. That's great.

(There's a tremor in his hands as he pulls them down his face, as he tries frantically to maintain his composure.

This is good, he reminds himself. She's here, and he's here, and they have each other, and they have Mantis and Groot. It's like he said. They have each other.

His breath hitches. He's spent over a week falling apart by degrees, and a part of him— a part of him had resigned himself completely to shattering. But he's shoring himself up again, because—

Because he needs to.)

Peter does a haphazard job of drying himself, of pulling his clothes back on. His shirt clings to his dampened skin, and his hair drips down the back of his neck as he joins her in the bedroom. ]

It should all still be there. Your stuff, I mean.

It's... only been a couple weeks. Since we left.

[ Gamora pulls an oversized grey shirt over her head, turning back to Peter as she steps into the shorts. She frowns, actively taken aback by how little time has gone by. ]

That's it?

[ But she's four years older. Riverview feels so long ago, but also like yesterday, but... it's not.

She rubs the towel over her hair once she's dressed, looking over at him from her spot by the dresser. ]

When did you get here?

A week ago.

[ Easy, straightforward answers. Part of him is terrified she's going to start asking the difficult questions soon – the fate of the other Guardians, what happened with Thanos, whether they won or lost – and he's mentally preparing himself. ]

It, um. Kind of screwed with my head, too. One week versus four years, I mean. Maybe you'll have an easier time, but... yeah.

[ She sighs, slowly lowering herself down onto the foot of the bed. ]

No part of this is easy.

[ Except— being back here with Peter. ]

What about the others? Drax, Rocket. Where are they?

[ And there it is.

Peter stays where he is, propping up the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his throat works, and it takes him a little while to respond: ]

They're not here.

[ The easy answer. ]

They— I think they will be. Soon. Eventually. [ It's the belief he's been hanging onto all week. ] But... right now, they're not here.

[ ... Oh. ]

... Nebula?

[ Her voice is a little hoarse as she asks this, because it physically pains her to think that her sister is still suspended in one of Thanos's cells, pulled to pieces and utterly at his mercy. ]

She's—

[ He frowns, licking his lips. Nebula had put them on the right track – too late, though. Far too late. And he still didn't know her all that well, but she had—

There were tears in her eyes, in that brief moment he had cared to look. Every bit as fucking heartbroken, but far less vocal about it. And—

(Mantis had fallen apart right underneath his arm. Drax, not too long after. And Peter had looked to Nebula next, terrified out of his fucking mind. She had caught his eye, looking every bit as confused, and she had gone completely rigid, and—

Oh, man—)

He swallows thickly. Shakes his head. ]

She's not here.

[ Gamora waits, watching his face, expecting an answer—

His expression isn't reassuring, and neither his reply. But— maybe it's just for now. Maybe her sister will come with the others.

Maybe.

She sighs, letting her chin drop, her fingers pressing to her forehead. ]

We have time.

[ She says it to remind herself now; they have time, they're safe in the Quarantine. They don't have to rush home or... ever worry about going back through the portal, so what else do they have but time?

Time, and each other. ]

[ He nods. That's exactly what he's been saying all along, right? They have time.

(They have all the time the Quarantine has afforded them. Borrowed time.) ]

Yeah.

[ A little quietly, but he shakes himself, tries to put on a reassuring expression. ]

Yeah. They'll be here. Might take a little while, but... yeah.

[ She holds her face in her hand for a few moments, then pushes her wet hair back, looking over at Peter. ]

Come here?

[ There's a bare second where he hesitates – not because he doesn't want to be close to her, but because he needs that second to make sure he's steady, to make sure he's good.

The mattress dips under his weight as he takes a seat beside her. He rests his hand on her knee, pressing his hip to hers, and something in him relaxes. Just a little. ]

[ Gamora leans against him when he settles beside her, pressing her brow to his jaw. ]

What happened, Peter?

[ All of it. What did she miss? What happened to him? ]

[ And just as quickly as that bit of tension fell away, it's almost instantly back. And maybe she isn't looking at him, but she'll be able to feel it. He goes rigid again, his hand tensing where it rests on her knee. His jaw clenching as he tries to swallow down the ugly burst of grief. His breath hitches in his chest, stutters a little as he lets it go in an unsteady exhale.

A rallying breath. Then another. And— he's done this once, at least. Recited the story for Mantis, but she already seemed to know what happened; mostly, he just filled in the blanks. So he can— he can do this again.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the middle distance. He can't— look at her. He can't confront just how horribly he failed. ]

Nebula tipped us off. Had us meet her on Titan. Told us that's where Thanos was headed, and that if we had any chance of stopping him and getting you back, it'd be there.

[ The words are pitched low, quiet, with little inflection. A surface-level recitation, not a story.

(She doesn't need to know about the hours he had spent, staring at the console. The hours he had spent with his music playing overhead. The hours he had spent, mind floating and body still.) ]

So we went. Ran into some folks from Earth – Little Pete. Stark. Doctor Strange. Came up with a plan to take the gauntlet from Thanos, but—

It didn't work.

[ my fault, he thinks. Knows. my fault my fault my fault— ]

He got the Time Stone from Strange, and he just... disappeared. And maybe ten minutes after that—

[ Something's happening—

He drags his free hand down his face, wills himself to keep it the fuck together, for five more minutes. He couldn't do it then, that day on Titan, but he can sure as hell do it now.

He can't bring himself to say the words: Thanos won. Can't bring himself to say how he watched Mantis and Drax turn to dust before he did the same.

Instead, he raises his free hand and snaps his fingers. ]

[ She feels him go still as stone beside her, and it's like all the air goes out of the room as he explains what happened. It's as bad as she thought – worse, even.

And the snap—

She figured Thanos won. With the Soul Stone, she knew it would only be a matter of time before he finished what he started, and—

Of course he pulled it off.

He did it. He really did it.

Gamora exhales on a shaky, unsteady breath, and she reaches up to cup his jaw, pressing a kiss to his cheek. ]

You did everything you could.

[ Her voice is so low, so soft, barely there, but— there's nothing condemning in her words. She doesn't say them for some hollow attempt to make him feel better, because she believes he did all that he could. He promised her, and he kept his promise, and—

What else could she ask of him? ]

[ He didn't. He really didn't.

He should have been faster, and he should've been stronger, and he should have shot Thanos in the fucking face when he had the chance on Knowhere. He should've blasted him straight in that smug fucking scrotum-chin, should've fired and fired and fired until he let go of Gamora to allow them to regroup, or at the very least, to give her the chance to run.

He should've been faster. He should've— he shouldn't have tried to talk Thanos down. He should have stayed in his hiding spot and timed his shots. He should have kept his promise.

He should have waited to interrogate Thanos. Should have waited for them to get that stupid oven mitt off so Peter could use it on him. Should have waited to have that glove on his hand so he could break every bone in Thanos' body, could turn him to sand and put him back together again, over and over and over.

But instead it's this: all of them, condemned to Riverview, having to stay here, because returning means going back to nothing. And it's—

He leans against her, hands shaking as he pulls her closer. His breathing turns a little ragged, but he's holding it together, still. Keeping it caged in. He's been doing pretty good, all week; what's another one? Another couple of weeks? A month, or longer, or however long it takes for Gamora to find her footing again?

I'm sorry, he nearly says. I'm sorry I wasn't better. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

What he says instead, just barely audible, ]

I've missed you.

[ She feels that shaking when Peter pulls her close, and it's impossible to miss the way he breathes. She knows how hard this must have been for him, she knows how much of a nightmare it is, and—

She understands. She's impressed (and grateful) for having a sturdy rock of a partner to come home to when everything fell apart, but she also doesn't expect him to be fine. None of this is fine.

She drops a kiss again on his cheek, then his temple as she holds onto him, like she'll never let go. ]

I'm here.

[ It's a promise as much as it is a reassurance.

Thanos can't touch them here (she hopes), and they have this place, this time, and... it's something. It's enough.

It has to be. ]

[ He turns, burying her face against her damp hair, taking in the smell of her shampoo, of the soap he had used on her skin, and—

He knew she would be here, sooner rather than later. He knew she'd arrive, and had been telling himself that whenever he felt himself starting to lose it. Gamora will be here, he kept saying. Gamora will be here, and what will she say when she finds out you've been a useless lump? What'll she say when she finds out you've been a burden on everyone?

And— she's here. Impossibly. Miraculously. She's here, and he should be overjoyed. He should be crying into her hair – ugly, snotty tears – until they're exhausted and collapse in bed together, waking with their limbs tangled in the morning.

But he's... he just feels drained. Numb. Detached.

He screws his eyes shut briefly, before forcing out the stiffness in his shoulders. ]

I knew you would be.

[ There's the faintest hint of warmth there, but not much. ]

Rude to keep a guy waiting, you know?

( open ) did you do it?

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