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

[ 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. ]

What are you apologizing for?

[ She asks it carefully, her eyes fixed on his face, even as he avoids hers. She's not asking to imply he's done nothing wrong, but... rather to understand what he thinks the problem is.

(An apology for the sake of apologizing means nothing.) ]

—I dunno.

[ A little helplessly. He scrubs his face with his free hand, like he’s trying to rub the grit out of his eyes. ]

Everything? I just— I don’t—

[ —I don’t know what I’m doing.

No. Fuck. No, okay. Keep it together, Quill. He tells himself he needs to be steady. He needs to keep it together while they’re both still lost in the woods.

He takes a steadying breath, eyes shutting briefly with it. Then, ]

I didn’t mean to upset you.

[ Because why else would she run out like that, unless he pissed her off? ]

[ ... Not helpful.

She sighs, reaching for the hand he'd been scrubbing at his face. ]

Then I need you to stop deferring to me constantly.

[ Among the list of things she needs, she'll start with this. ]

[ He lets her take his hand, but at her words, he blinks at her, a little confused – and for once, he’s genuinely puzzled, rather than trying to feign ignorance to avoid having to take responsibility. ]

What are you talking about?

[ She shakes her head shortly, her lips pressed thin. ]

All you do is ask what I want. You talk to me like you're afraid I'll snap if something doesn't go my way. You keep trying to do everything for me.

Everything, Peter.

[ His frown only deepens, that confusion becoming more pronounced. He has a couple of false starts before he manages, ]

I’m— trying to be considerate.

You can be considerate and still be my partner. I am just as capable as I've always been.

[ She can hang up her own coat. She can handle the suggestion to eat pizza. She can take on more than just her own burdens. ]

[ He still looks slightly mystified, but— ]

... Yeah. Okay.

[ —this sort of offhand agreement is, very likely, exactly what Gamora’s talking about. At the very least, he’s not completely clueless (even if, in all honesty, he’s not sure why this is a problem), which is why he hastens to add, ]

I know you’re capable. I never thought you weren’t.

[ The agreement doesn't seem to placate her, because that's part of the problem. ]

Then why are you doing all of this?

[ He falters for a second, pulling back a little like he’s on the defensive (which he absolutely is.) ]

I already said. I’m— I’m trying to be considerate.

I can’t just do stuff for you without getting called out?

You can't do everything for me. You act like it's all the same, and it's not.

[ Everything is different now, and she can't be the only one feeling the weight of it. Peter has been going out of his way to ensure he's doing the caretaking – all of it – and Gamora can't go on being handled with so much delicacy. She's not okay, but she's not breaking, either, and she can't be the only one of them who's struggling. ]

I’m not—

[ —doing everything, except maybe he is. Maybe, kind of, a little, though it’s evidently not occurring to him until now. And he falters, pulling back entirely this time.

For a second or two, he looks at her with confusion and something approaching irritation. ]

I’m just trying to help. I’m trying to take care of everyone. Why the hell is that such a crime?

Because you won't let anyone take care of you!

[ ... This comes out more sharply than she intends. It's not the edge of aggression or real anger, but—

Distress? Frustration? Some combination of the two that Gamora couldn't even try to name?

(Distantly, she remembers feeling something like it back on Ego's planet, but that was so long ago.) ]

[ It's the sharpness of her words that registers first, way before the tone, and it's biting enough that he lets out a frustrated sound, getting to his feet with his Walkman still in hand. ]

I don't want to be taken care of.

[ It's been a while since Groot was this small, this impressionable, but old habits kick in again. When Peter responds, it's in a quiet hiss, keeping his voice low to avoid waking – or worse, upsetting – the kid. ]

And I don't need it, either. I'm dealing, okay? I'm keeping it together. [ His mantra for the past couple of long, endless weeks. ]

I just— I want all of you to be okay, but apparently I can't do that without getting the third degree for it.

But you are not okay, Peter. None of us are, but you can't keep all of this glued together on your own. That isn't how this works.

[ She still sounds frustrated and uncertain, but she at least has enough awareness to keep her voice down, to make sure they don't disturb Groot. ]

That’s exactly how it’s supposed to work!

[ And the words are sharp, defensive, still cast out on a low hiss. ]

I’m the captain, Gamora. [ Like that means everything. His hand shakes a little as he scrubs his eyes again before he lets out a sharp, frustrated grunt. His hand drops to his side, and he paces the small space. ] This is— you guys are all my responsibility. It’s my job to look after you guys, and—

And I fucked it all up back home. Just— really fucked it up, but now that we’re here, I can fix that. And that’s all I want, right now: to fix it. To make sure you guys are okay and to— to keep you all safe.

[ Gamora is finally on her feet again, and she steps up next to Peter, reaching up to set a hand on his wrist. ]

I am not your responsibility. I am your partner, and it's as much my place to keep you safe as it is yours as captain.

[ Her voice is firm, but that frustrated edge has softened ever so slightly. ]

I am not your job. What happened back home—

[ Her throat feels tighter all of a sudden, the words hoarser as she forces them out adamantly. ]

None of that was your fault.

[ He stares at her, jaw clenched and teeth gritted together. He holds himself rigidly, hands clenched into fists, like he’s trying to restrain himself from yanking his wrist out of her grasp.

He wants to snap at her, he wants to shout, Bullshit.

Because it is all his fault. Of course it was all his fault. He made a million mistakes that’s led them here, left them like this: broken and unsteady, barely holding together.

Instead, Peter stays silent, and he tears his gaze away to stare at the floor. ]

[ There's absolutely nothing reassuring about Peter's silence, even as he stares at her, and she's almost bracing herself for him to shout, waiting for that crack in his insistent need to take care of them— ]

You did what I asked. You did what you were supposed to. You weren't going to stop him.

[ But Gamora could have.

(Should have.) ]

No, I didn’t.

[ And the words tear their way out of him before he can stop them. ]

I really didn’t. You asked me to— you made me swear, and I— I didn’t do it. I didn’t.

[ And this time, he does try to yank his hand out of her grasp, trying to free himself to return to pacing. ]

It’s my fault. All of it. I didn’t— I didn’t keep my promise. And then I just— after he took you, I just— sat there. For hours.

Friggin’ hours, Gamora.

I just— I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything.

[ That weird emptiness had taken over, once Mantis and Drax had recovered. He had just slumped in his chair on the flight deck staring, head bowed as he listened to his music. It was like he was eight years old all over again, sitting in an uncomfortable, plastic chair, waiting and waiting and waiting.

And it’s been creeping over him at odd moments since he’s been back in Riverview. Shopping trips and outings and evenings spent watching TV, made long and awkward and silent as he floated out of himself, as he disconnected, as the world around him turned dreamlike and distant. ]

I should’ve used that time to figure something out. Literally anything. I should’ve tried to find you. I should have saved you, but I just sat on my ass, waiting around.

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