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

I guess so.

[ It is, admittedly. It's 100% his thing, usually, but a part of him would rather just— do nothing.

Which, admittedly, isn't productive.

But, okay. She's right. It's his thing. (Like that song by the Isley Brothers.) And even if Peter isn't particularly feeling it, if he's really honest, maybe that little bit of normalcy is what they all need, right now. Peter slotting into his usual role, and Gamora slotting into hers. Maybe it'll help with this weird, suffocating atmosphere that's settled over all of them.

He takes a breath, puts on a sunny, tight-lipped smile. ]

Yeah. It'll be fun.

[ Of course she isn't convinced by that smile.

(It's hard to believe much of Peter's good cheer right now.) ]

It will be.

[ She gestures lightly to Groot with her fork. ]

Maybe Mantis will babysit.

[ A quick hesitation, barely more than a blink of an eye, before he lets out a quiet, noncommittal hum. ]

Yeah, maybe.

Won't be a big deal to take him along, though.

[ The hesitation may have been something to brush off in another circumstance, but the answer outright confuses her enough to take notice.

She... kind of assumed Peter would want to visit the festival as a date. That's the point of Dragosta, isn't it? It celebrated romantic love, unlike Hygge or some of the other events that made sense to enjoy as a family; most of the activities were for couples or intentionally made it easier for couples to have time together.

Groot, as much as she may care for him, was not conducive to a romantic evening.

(Does Peter not want that? Is he intentionally avoiding it?

What if he's worried about being alone with her? What if he thinks she's been so affected by everything with Thanos that she's become unstable? What if he thinks she might do worse than cut open his arm?

What if—)

But Groot is right here, and the idea of asking for an explanation is suddenly wildly unappealing, so she just— shrugs. ]

All right.

[ The truth of the matter is, Peter prefers having everyone where he can see them.

Mantis needs her privacy, though, so he doesn't begrudge her that. She stepped away, and even if he had wanted to keep her nearby, wanted to tell her, "No, no, it's cool, just— stay. Please," he didn't.

Maybe he's being overprotective, though. Maybe he's being unreasonable. But it feels like every time the team separates, every time they put lightyears between them, bad shit tends to happen.

Rather than explain that, though, his gaze flicks over to the subject in question, and— apparently Groot is right back to inhaling his food, bent over the bowl's edge and just shy of swimming in his rice. Peter plucks him up again, putting him on his feet. ]

You're gonna choke on broccoli if you keep that up, kid.

[ Groot makes the whiniest noise imaginable when Peter takes him out of his bowl, but he also doesn't immediately try to dive back in.

Gamora reaches over to brush a little sauce off the top of his head with the edge of her napkin, sighing as she cleans him off. He puts up with the fussing, though he's still shoving handfuls of rice into his mouth as Gamora wipes some of the mess away.

He's going to need a bath after this.

But that seems to be enough for her dinner, because she crumples the dirty napkin, getting to her feet to go drop it in the trash. She finds the lid for her leftovers so she can take it to work for lunch on her next shift, then deposits her mostly-full bowl into the refrigerator.

Rather than leave her fork in the sink to be dealt with later, she sets about washing it, along with the stray plates that sit at the bottom of the basin. ]

[ He glances up as Gamora moves, watching her for a breath or two and— ]

You're done already? You barely ate.

[ —he says, having done the same.

(And for a brief second, he feels and sounds like his mom lecturing him when he was seven years old, but he shoves the stray thought aside.) ]

I didn't say I was hungry.

[ In fact, she intentionally asked if Peter was, instead. She rarely had that nagging reminder to eat these days, like she just... forgot to feel hungry.

Her body will get over that eventually. She knows that it will. ]

You should still get something down, you know?

I mean, you barely touched it.

I ate. I'm fine.

[ She runs hot water into the sink (water that would be far too hot for anyone else) as she reaches for a sponge. ]

Worry about your own dinner.

[ He frowns a little at her back, at the all too obvious tendrils of steam curling up toward the ceiling. ]

I can worry about multiple things at once.

[ And he says it lightly, trying to imbue his voice with some of his usual levity. ]

Like, right now, I'm a little worried you're trying to give yourself second-degree burns.

[ Gamora doesn't turn to face Peter, but she holds up a hand, turning it front to back to show the barely-darkened tint of green. ]

Do you see any burns?

[ Said with the flat exasperation of someone having to explain something one too many times. ]

No.

[ With a similar level of exasperation. ]

But I'm not sure if the plates and utensils need to be boiled, you know?

It's fine, Peter.

[ Her voice has finality to it as she rinses the last plate, setting it on the drying rack with the rest of the wet dishware. She reaches for a towel to wipe her hands, a subtle tick in her clenched jaw almost making her teeth grind together as she glances to the digital time display on their microwave.

It's not that late, so— ]

I'm going for a walk.

[ He blinks at her, sitting up in his seat. His gaze follows hers to the clock, and—

That weird, panicky impulse. The one demanding that he stay close, don't let her leave, don't let her out of your sigh— ]

Um. Sure.

[ He stands, then, swallowing thickly. ]

I'll get our jackets.

[ "Our." Apparently he's invited himself along. ]

I said I'm going for a walk.

[ She repeats it shortly, brushing past Peter to fetch her jacket from the closet. ]

Groot needs to go to bed soon, and he needs a bath.

[ Once more, pointedly: ]

I'm going for a walk.

[ Peter glances down at Groot, who blinks up at the two of them. The kid chews slowly, a handful of rice still in his hand.

That dark, panicky thing writhes in his gut, makes something bitter crawl up his throat. Don't let her go, don't let her go, don't let her go— ]

I don't think Groot minds putting off bedtime. And if you don't mind waiting while he gets a hose-down, the two of us could go with you.

[ The noise in the back of her throat isn't quite a growl, but it's close as frustration settles itself on top of the other bundle of convoluted emotions sitting on Gamora's shoulders like an impossible bolder. ]

I am going for a walk. By. My. Self.

[ She enunciates each syllable to leave no room for questioning her intentions: she's going to leave the apartment, alone, to go for a walk. They are not invited. ]

[ —it's stupid. It's totally stupid, but the sharpness of her voice, the rigid way she holds herself—

It feels like a slap in the face.

And he stares at her, for a second or two, completely stricken, but eventually he swallows around the knot in his throat, head lowering a little.

It's stupid. It's really fucking stupid. He let Mantis have her space, so he should let Gamora have the same, right? All that shit— all the shit that happened back home, it's a lot to process, and god knows Peter hasn't even started to work through it all, worried about everyone else as he has been. It hardly helps that thinking too long or too hard on any of it makes something ugly tighten around his chest, makes him feel sick and terrified.

So Gamora wants space. And— and that's normal. That's fine.

(But in four years together, he honestly can't remember if anything like this has ever happened. Whenever they were hurting, whenever they were reeling, Peter can't remember a time when they didn't seek each other out.) ]

... Okay.

[ And he croaks it out, gaze cast down to the floor. ]

Yeah. Okay. If that's what you want.

[ —That look on his face.

It's almost enough to make Gamora falter, to give her legitimate pause, because—

She doesn't get it. She doesn't understand Peter's behavior, and she's being pulled in too many directions to parse it out. It seems like he doesn't want to be alone with her, but then he doesn't want her to go out on her own. He treats her like she's made of glass, like she's going to snap or fall apart or—

She's not fine. She knows she's not fine, no matter how much she tries to keep herself glued together, but she feels so much less fine when Peter is cowering and bending to accommodate her every whim and—

She hates it. She wants to feel normal again, she wants to fall into their old, easy dance and feel okay, and feel... equal. She doesn't feel equal right now, and maybe that's what's so hard. Peter is sectioning himself off, while handling her with thick gloves, like she's too sharp or too fragile or too breakable. And it's care, certainly, it's diligent and attentive, but it makes her feel like a child being carefully placated to avoid a tantrum or a delicate bird that might fly away at the first opportunity of an open door.

She feels like all of these things, but she doesn't feel like his partner right now.

Finally, all she can settle on is, ]

It is.

[ And she shoves her arms into her jacket, heading straight for the door. She doesn't slam it, but she doesn't give him the time to stop her before she closes it behind herself. ]

[ She storms out, and—

There are movies like this, he thinks briefly. There are TV shows and dramas and romances where a couple has a big blow out, or there’s something keeping them apart. One person stomps away, and the other runs after them, chasing them down through torrential downpours or snow storms or whatever. There’s a dramatic confession, and huge, triumphant swell of music, and they kiss.

The door shuts with a resounding thud – not hard enough to slam or shake the walls, but with an overwhelming sense of finality, all the same.

And Peter stays where he is, staring without seeing, mind going blank. He’s not entirely sure how much time passes before the kid clears his throat, offers up a tiny, tentative, ]

I am Groot?

[ Peter blinks, coming back to himself and looking back to Groot, who has smears of sauce and bits of broccoli florets clinging to his face. Peter puts on a smile, wiping off some of the mess with his thumb. ]

Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?

[ He goes through the motions, after that, putting away what’s left of their dinners. (Peter, like Gamora, had barely touched his food, and it gets shoved into the fridge.) He gets the kid cleaned up, keeps up a quiet patter to keep Groot’s mind off the weird, tense atmosphere that’s settled over the apartment. Once Groot is tucked into bed, Peter swaps into his sleep clothes, slips into the living room. He plucks up his Walkman and plugs himself in. He slumps down on the couch, slouching down far enough to rest the back of his head on the back of the couch, letting him stare up at the ceiling, and he—

Waits. For as long as he needs to. ]

[ Gamora could stay out all night. It wouldn't be hard to find something to occupy herself, either by retreating to the training facilities or simply wandering the quieter portions of the Quarantine (or maybe just taking on another shift at the Guard).

But she doesn't.

Leaving right now isn't some kind of punishment or a way to lash out at Peter; she isn't doing it to be hurtful.

She just... needs to breathe. To collect herself and pick apart the frustrations and heartache that's left her prickling all over.

So instead of all of the places she could go, she finds herself in the gardens. Almost on autopilot, she wanders through to the grove of trees she'd shown Peter when they first arrived in Riverview, and she makes a place for herself underneath one. As she leans back against the trunk, she reaches up, brushes her fingers over a leaf—

And the whole clearing lights with a soft, soothing glow.

Gamora sighs, letting her head thunk back against the tree as she just... takes some time.

A little over two hours later, she finally takes the tram to community housing. Up the elevator, to their floor, to their apartment, and she lets herself in, closing the door much more quietly behind herself. She's slow about taking her jacket off, getting rid of her boots, trying not to startle or disturb the silence of the evening. ]

[ Peter just sits and waits, his mother’s music filling the blank space in his head. It’s— weird, when he looks back on moments like these. Like he stops thinking, like he stops being, and just sort of... freezes. Like someone hit the pause button him.

He’s not sure how long it takes, if he’s honest. The music runs out on one side, though he’s not sure how long he sits in silence before it occurs to him to flip the tape. He’s not quite finished with the second side before movement catches his eye.

Gamora.

He tugs down his headphones, leaving them hanging around his neck; the button clicks beneath his finger, the reels clacking quietly as they come to a stop. Peter sits up, watching her silently, almost nervously.

He’s pretty sure he’s done something wrong. He’s pretty sure she’s pissed at him, or maybe just— sick of him. He’s not sure which, but he’s reasonably sure this is on him.

But the apology lodges itself in his throat as he watches her shrug out of her jacket, kick off her boots.

Then, finally, in a voice that’s only just above a whisper, ]

Welcome back.

[ Gamora turns when Peter speaks, taking in the look of him in the silence. She could just turn without a word, head into the bedroom, not engage, but—

She doesn't want to.

She doesn't speak yet, but she comes around the side of the couch, lowering herself down next to him, folding one left up underneath herself. She reaches out with one hand, setting it onto his knee – quiet, gentle. ]

[ He waits, watching her a little expectantly.

(Part of him expects her to storm off again. Part of him expects nothing more than a cursory glance in his direction before she stalks into the bedroom. Part of him expects a long, silent night and an even longer morning where she won’t even look at him—)

Something untwists in his gut when she approaches. He’s hardly relaxed, though, as she sits beside him, as she rests a hand on his knee, and—

Tentatively, he rests his hand atop hers, following the line of her arm up to her shoulder. He can’t quite bring himself to meet her gaze just yet, but he offers quietly, hesitantly, ]

I’m— I’m sorry.

[ For whatever it was he did wrong, which— all things considered could be anything. Everything. Encompassing both their time back in Riverview and— all the shit that came before. ]

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