( open ) did you do it?

[godslay]

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! )

Comments

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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. ]

[godslay]

[ 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? ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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.

[godslay]

[ 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. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ 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?

[godslay]

[ She doesn't need a direct line to Peter's thoughts to read his tension, to feel how hard this is for him, how hard it's been for all of them. She draws back to look at his face, cupping his jaw and trying to search for that moment of... something. That reassurance that they're going to be okay, because it's so hard to find it right now. Her palm smooths over his bristly cheek, thumb brushing under his eye. ]

I never want to make you wait.

[ Not like this. She never wants to leave him behind or force him to be the last man standing, even if she'd asked him for exactly that – when she made him promise to kill her. She didn't want to do that, but she'd had to, she'd had no choice—

(Except taking her own life earlier, before Thanos even had the option of kidnapping her to wring out the location of the Soul Stone. Should she have done that? To protect a universe of lives?

Should she have taken that road instead of forcing Peter to swear he'd do it for her?)

Her fingers tighten faintly on his jaw, her breathing hitching once.

And finally: ]

—I'm sorry.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He smiles a little at the reassurance, though it's hardly genuine, doesn't even try to reach his eyes. He reaches up, presses his hand against hers at his cheek, and—

He can sense it, the instant she tries to cast the words. He senses it, and he starts shaking his head, tries to tell her, Don't.

But then she's starting to voice it anyway, and he makes a desperate, frantic little sound. And before she can complete the word, he surges forward, captures her lips in his. It's a strategy right out of Gamora's playbook, trying to shut him up with a well-timed kiss, but— it's already out there. She already said it.

Apparently that isn't going to stop him from trying to shove the apology back into the ether. ]

[godslay]

—Mmn.

[ The kiss catches her entirely by surprise. That's so usually her move when Peter is babbling endlessly, when he's tripping all over himself or being particularly smug or can't seem to find the end of too many thoughts, and she isn't expecting him to flip the script like this. She isn't sure why he's so quick to cut the apology short – or to try – because she thinks she owes him one.

For so many different things.

But then he's kissing her, and Gamora had thought, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she'd never get to do that again, and her regret is swallowed up by that brief spark of relief that makes all of this feel real for a second.

(There's a part of her terrified this could fade away, that it could all be a clever illusion, if she's particularly unlucky.)

She doesn't draw away or try to murmur another "sorry" between their lips, instead making a soft, broken sound that dies in her throat as she pulls him a little closer. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It's selfish, admittedly, using this to stop her from apologizing.

Because if she starts, then he has to start, and he doesn't know if he can stop, once he gets going. He doesn't know if he can maintain his composure, like he has been, because once he voices everything aloud, once he feels compelled to tell her everything that went wrong, everything he fucked up, his guilt will devour him alive.

So he kisses her – a distraction, a ruse, an attempt to diver her attention. And when she makes that wounded noise, he shifts, pulling up a leg onto the bed to face her more fully. His arm twinges briefly, the wound still undressed, though the bleeding has stopped, but that doesn't stop him from bringing up both hands to bracket the lines of her jaw – something a little possessive in the gesture. ]

[godslay]

[ They're— alive. Here, in Riverview, they're alive, and they don't have to worry about a fight that would tear them apart. Here, they're together. Here, there's no need to demand a promise that would swallow them whole if they dwelt on it for more than a heartbeat. Here, they're safe, and the horrors they left back home can't follow after them.

One hand on his jaw, the other on his chest, Gamora knots her fingers in his shirt, like that alone will keep him there.

They should talk, shouldn't they? There should be more apologies, because she owes them to him, and they should figure out how they're going to handle this, but—

Gamora just needs to know that he's okay. She needs to know that they made it out – in some way, shape, or form – together.

And this helps. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He pulls back after a moment or two, keeping his forehead against hers, and he breathes deeply, heavily – the scent of soap, of shampoo, of something distinctly her, and—

(That lingering, metallic smell. The stench of ash and dust on the back of his tongue – something he hasn't been able to shake since he arrived back in the Quarantine.) ]

Do you need anything?

[ Quietly, as he brushes damp curls away from her face. ]

Water, or food, or— or whatever. Maybe you should get some sleep, or—

[godslay]

[ Her eyes stay closed as they part, her breathing still a little unsteady, but she's reveling in the small points of contact, holding onto them and him.

It's her turn to stop his babbling with a kiss, leaning in again to claim his lips before he can continue to ramble. She understands wanting to do something, anything, to feel useful and grounded and like it's making a difference, but she doesn't need any of that.

She just needs Peter, and she needs him to be alive and here. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ This is slightly more familiar ground, at least, and it makes something in him ache for it, makes his chest twist and punches the breath from his lungs.

The longest fucking week of his life, like Riverview was Purgatory, and he was just... hanging in the balance. Not awful, obviously, considering he had breath in his lungs and blood in his veins and a body to do all of that, when before he was nothing but ash. But not amazing either, because he was haunted by his missteps, by the ghosts of his friends and family, and—

This helps. Gamora, alive, warm against him. It's not perfect, still. He wishes terribly that Drax and Rocket were here, too, but at least Gamora is—

Not okay. Neither of them are okay, not even remotely, even if Peter has been trying frantically to act like it. But... she's here. And that's better than nothing. ]