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

You don’t get it.

[ His hands drop from his face, but he doesn’t try to yank his wrists out of her grasp again.

And when he looks at her, he’s— obviously exhausted. Drained. And maybe he should feel— broken? Angry? Sad? He should feel everything, but instead he just feels numb and empty. ]

We had him, on Titan.

[ And there’s not much inflection in his voice; he’s been grappling with this truth for weeks, and the guilt of it has been fucking wrecking him, and— he can’t feel much of anything about it, now. ]

Mantis put him under, and we were getting that stupid gauntlet off him, and we almost had it. We were so close, but I—

Nebula figured it out, what happened to you on Vormir. And I just... I lost it. I wanted to destroy him. I just— I couldn’t—

[ He cuts himself off, screws his eyes shut. He grits his teeth, ducking his head. ]

I snapped him out of his trance. He got free, beat our asses into the ground, and got the Time Stone from Strange.

And it’s my fault.

[ That startles her.

That piece, she had no idea, and—

Part of her thinks it wouldn't have mattered. Even if they'd succeeded, even if the gauntlet had been pulled free, even if— ]

I don't—

[ She stops herself short, her jaw clenched tight as she squeezes his wrists (not hard, not painful, just grounding). ]

I don't think anything would have been different.

Of course it would’ve.

[ And this manages to get a bit of feeling back in him, just a touch of incredulity and frustration. ]

If I hadn’t screwed it up, we could’ve taken the gauntlet. I could’ve— I could’ve used it and turned him into glitter.

I could’ve gotten the Time Stone from Strange, or I could’ve taken it from him. And I could’ve found the Mind Stone on Earth and taken that, too.

I could’ve brought you back, Gamora. I could’ve—

[ —fuck. Fuck, this is exactly what he didn’t want to do, because his throat is closing up, and guilt snaps and writhes in his chest, dark and hideous and all-consuming, and— ]

I watched them die. Mantis and Drax. They died because I screwed up. Half the universe, just gone, because I fell apart, and I—

[ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He’s going to lose it. He’s been keeping it together for weeks – because he didn’t during that moment on Titan, but he’s been trying to now, because he can’t fail his team again. He can’t have them witness him falling apart again. He needs to be strong for them when he couldn’t be before, but—

He can’t. He fucking can’t. And that’s always been his problem, hasn’t it? He’s not strong enough for this. ]

It’s my fault. I fucked up and took down half the universe with me.

Peter.

[ She can hear it in his voice; she can see it on his face. She feels it, too, that writhing, angry guilt, vicious and promising to eat her whole, because she deserves it, because she helped bring the universe down around their ears, and all of those people died, and they didn't have to, if she— ]

It wasn't you.

[ She could have stopped it earlier, before Thanos ever caught her. Maybe she should have run, put distance between herself and her team to keep them safe—

No, that wouldn't have saved them, any more than it saved Nebula. Thanos would have swept them up and waited for her to come calling.

He would have found her. He would have found a way, because he knew. He knew, and he knew she wasn't strong enough to bear the weight of that knowledge if he threatened what she loves. She can't, she can't, she—

She tugs Peter towards her by his wrists, staring at a point on his collarbone with that sadness and steel behind her eyes. ]

It. Wasn't. You.

[ He resists when she pulls him, shaking his head sharply.

She’s wrong. She’s so horribly wrong, and that rarely ever happens. Or maybe she’s just saying this shit to try and make him feel better? Like, some misguided attempt at soothing away his guilt?

But he doesn’t deserve that. Not really. Not when every single one of his fuck-ups made it all happen. He deserves all the shit that’s coming to him. For not being fast enough on Knowhere, for hesitating, for not keeping his word. For losing his shit on Titan. For not helping Stark and the kid wrestle the gauntlet off of Thanos and using it against the bastard, once they had it.

For his inability to protect his team. For his failure.

You don’t understand. [ And his voice is rough, barely above a whisper. ] You weren’t there on Titan. You didn’t see how it happened.

That doesn't matter.

[ And she says it with her own conviction, even hoarse as her voice is, as she refuses to let him go. ]

You were in that position because I put you there. On Knowhere, on Titan – all of it.

[ Keeping the Soul Stone from Thanos feels like the last stopgap. The only one that mattered, because he knew where to get the rest of them. He knew how to take it all, if he'd wanted to.

She was the missing link. Vormir was the last piece of his puzzle, and she'd solved it for him. ]

We weren't going to win.

[ It feels like a stab in the gut when she says that, and he looks stricken again, eyes wide and lips parted.

We could’ve, he nearly says, but does he want to say it? Peter’s already gone through every dance number in his head, has changed the steps, over and over and over to determine where he went wrong. He’s spotted a billion different slipups over the past couple of weeks, corrected for them, and—

He really thinks they could have won. He honestly and truly believes if he had just been better, none of this shit would have happened. Thanos would be dead, and the Infinity Stones would have been scattered across the universe again. Peter would still be back home, with Drax and Mantis and Rocket and Groot. They would have kept existence as they knew safe for yet another day.

(But if he had been faster on Knowhere. If he had shot first without trying to talk Thanos down, if he had succeeded in keeping his word to Gamora—

On the off-chance that Thanos let them live after that, would Peter have been able to live with himself?

Ego, sighing and shrugging: I did what I had to do.

And Thanos, with milky eyes, through gritted teeth: I had to.

Gamora had asked this of him. It would have been wildly different, Peter knows, but in his heart? It feels the fucking same. And Mom had told him, over and over, You’re so much like your daddy.)

He lowers his gaze to the hollow of Gamora’s throat, swallows around the ugly lump that’s lodged itself in his esophagus.

And the only thing he can think to say: ]

I’m sorry.

[ He looks like she's slapped him across the face. It twists in her stomach, and she has to move her hands up, up his arms to bracket his face as she steps into him. ]

So am I.

[ She won't tell him not to be sorry; mistakes were made, on all sides, by all people. She feels like she has the most reason to seek repentance, but she has no idea where to even start. She could have— she should have—

And she didn't. ]

Look at me.

[ She smooths her thumb over his jaw, tugs gently, but with some of that heavy exhaustion that's held fast since she woke up in the Quarantine. ]

[ When she releases his wrists, he lets his hands drop to his sides, heavy and limp like a marionette with its strings cut. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath the pad of her thumb, and for a few seconds, he doesn’t move.

But he relents, soon enough, just barely lifting his gaze to meet hers, and his own exhaustion mirrors hers. He’s barely slept since he’s been back; how could he, when every time he shut his eyes, he kept reliving every moment? Gamora, with tears in her eyes and resignation in her voice. Staring sightlessly at the console as they sat on Knowhere, music blaring overhead. Mantis, crumbling away, and Drax, calling for him with fear and confusion in his voice.

Peter doesn’t believe in ghosts, but he’s sure as hell been haunted since he arrived back in Riverview.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches her with a bit of trepidation. He’s not sure what it is she means to say, but whatever it is, a part of him is reluctant to hear it. ]

[ She waits, patient and undemanding, for Peter to lift his eyes to hers. She can see how tired he is, how heavily this sits on him (how can it not?), and she wishes so dearly that she could sweep it all away for him.

Why is there no easy way to fix this? Why are there no good answers? How are they supposed to go through something like this and come out the other side?

(But she has, hasn't she? Her whole childhood was a mess of loss and pain and survival. This is another day of survival, but it's different now, because she's suffering through it all with people she loves.)

She reaches up, brushes away his hair, searching his face silently for a few long moments. She could tell him that she forgives him (she does). She could tell him that she's sorry (she is). She could tell him that none of this matters now (it doesn't).

She could say so very many things.

She doesn't.

Instead, she kisses him – soft and sweet and imbued with all the love that might crack her chest in two. ]

[ He waits, unconsciously leaning into her touch, taking a shuddering breath as she studies him. It's weird, honestly, that they had been so fucking close before they arrived back here, practically attached at the hip. But once they were both in Riverview, it was like—

It felt like someone had slammed down walls between them. Like Gamora might as well have been miles away, even when they sat side by side in the same room.

He thinks those walls are starting to crack, at least a little, and it would be a relief if it weren't for all the giant baggage that came with it.

But she presses her lips to his, and he lets out a low, almost wounded noise for it, and— He feels like he shouldn't, for whatever reason. He feels like he doesn't deserve this, but—

Peter's always been at least a little selfish. So when she kisses him, slow and warm, he falls into it, not quite relaxing, but leaning into her like she's the only thing keeping him tethered. ]

[ She kisses him like the world might end if she stops (an idea that seems laughable now). Her hands move down his face, his neck, his shoulders, to his waist so she can pull him against her, so she can hold him. Nothing has been easy since she's returned to Riverview, and nothing has come with their usual rhythm. She misses it, misses him, misses feeling... right, and she doesn't know how to get there again, but she knows that this rigid barrier between them won't let anything heal.

Everything went wrong, but there's no changing it now. She doesn't want him to keep punishing himself; not with the toll it's taking on him, not with the way he's forcing himself to... be fine when he's not.

He's not. She's not. And maybe they're barely hanging on by a thread, but she doesn't want either of them to be lost to this, and that— that means they need each other. ]

[ He reaches up, brackets her face with his hands, and—

That ugly, writhing guilt lashes out in him, makes him choke, and his breath hitches with it, stuttering a little.

Peter thought— for a little while there, he thought— that Gamora was gone. He had told himself she would be here, because he needed to cling to that hope. But during darker moments, during those deathly silent handfuls of seconds in the dead of night, he thought about their final kiss on the Benatar. Thought about the sadness and resignation and fear on Gamora's face, and—

his fault his fault his fault—

His throat closes up. His eyes sting and water before he screws them shut, his breath growing uneven and ragged, and—

Keep it together, he tells himself, and the kiss grows a little more desperate, goes a little clumsy. Keep it the fuck together.

[ She's not oblivious to the way he reacts. She can hear his breathing and his heartbeat, every hitch and halt and stutter, and she holds him a little tighter, closer. But she's easing out of the kiss, her lips bare breaths from his as she leans gently into the palms on her cheeks. ]

I'm here.

[ Soft, hoarse— ]

I'm right here, Peter.

[ He lets out a noise of protest when she pulls away, even if he still feels the heat of her breath, the brush of her lips on his. It’s—

He doesn’t want to stop, and he shoves himself forward again, closing the bare whisper of space between them to catch her mouth in a bruising kiss. If he stops, it’ll all catch up to him. If he stops, it’ll slam over him and bring him down.

She’s here, she says. And he knows it, even if there’s a part of him that’s two steps out of sync, that feels like none of this is real, like this is all a dream, and that eventually, he has to wake up – to an empty bed, a quiet room, the lonely silence. She’s here, and she’s solid and warm against him, and his bruised ribs ache as she pulls him in close. She’s here. She’s here, and— and he thought, for a little while, that she wouldn’t be, and—

What would he have done? Four years of his life, intricately woven into the lives of his team, his family. They’ve all had close calls before, have all coasted way too close to the jaws of death, and the hard brush with reality was sobering. Humbling. Terrifying.

What the hell would he do without Gamora?

He sucks down a frantic breath with the stray thought, a low, desperate noise escaping him, and he tries to bury that weird surge of ugly emotion that threatens to eat him alive.

Fuck. His hands shake as they press against her cheeks, the tremor traveling all along his body making him clumsy. His eyes water, and even as he screws them shut, he can feel something trickle down his cheeks.

Fuck. His hands fall from her face, fingers tangling into the material at the collar of her shirt, grip tightening like she’s his only lifeline against a raging sea. ]

[ She doesn't fight him when he drags her back into the kiss, because she can feel how much he needs it. She can feel how he's barely holding on, and—

She gets it. She gets it. In so many ways, Peter is the only thing keeping her grounded against the reality of everything in their universe (because if she lets it catch up to her, it's too much). If she can be that for him, if she can keep him steady and solid, if she can let him lean on her the way he needs to, then she will.

She's here. She's here for him, and he needs to know that, no matter how hard this is for him. No matter what he's feeling or what he's going through, she's there to let him feel it all.

He shakes as he tries to cling to her, those sounds in his throat making her own chest tight, and one hand leaves his waist, coming up to cup his cheek, to catch the stray tears sliding over the rough stubble on his jaw. There's no separation, because as long as he needs to kiss her, she's there for him, returning it wholeheartedly, letting this deep, dark depth swallow him completely – but Gamora won't let him drown.

No matter what.]

[ He’s trying to hold it together, he really is, and— he’s doing okay. He’s been doing okay, but—

She matches him, beat for beat, heat for heat, and she’s exactly as Peter remembers. The taste and feel of her. The easy rhythm. It’s barely been any time at all since they’ve been apart, but it felt like fucking lifetimes. He tries to lose himself to it, tries to fall into it with all the ease that comes with four years of being together, but—

There’s something holding him back, still. A lash of rope around his neck, yanking him away, keeping him from sinking into the familiarity of it all.

And she reaches up, her touch so fucking gentle, so fucking kind, and it screams it for her: I’m here. I’m here. But she almost wasn’t. And maybe she shouldn’t be. But she is. She’s here, and for all his failures, for all his fuck-ups, at least— at least there’s this. That one little glimmer of light in the dark.

His expression crumples. His breathing picks up, his shoulders heaving with it, until they turn into ragged gasps. He tries to pull back, head bowed until his brow is nearly on her shoulder, trying to hide his face. His teeth bite down on his lower lip, trying to use the pain of it as an anchor. He untangles one hand from Gamora’s clothes to furiously scrub at his eyes, shaking uncontrollably. He tries to stop, even though he knows it’s as impossible as trying to MacGyver a dam out of little more than a few sticks and a roll of duct tape, and—

Two weeks. Two long fucking weeks, keeping it all contained while little bits of him flaked and fell away, but—

He breaks. ]

[ It's a slow descent, but she can feel him coming to pieces until he can't keep up the kiss. Rather than pull away, she draws him closer, letting him duck his head and hide how he just—

—breaks.

Gamora's hand moves from his face to gently catch the hand trying to scrub at his eyes, because he doesn't have to force it back, as hopeless as it may be. Now, she's just holding him and turning her face against his hair, anchoring herself to him with that promise to let him shatter safely, solidly, as much as he needs to. Being strong can only go so far when it's slowly chipping away at you, at everything, and—

She murmurs softly against his ear as he shudders with those hiccuping gasps, all of that gentle reassurance that comes easily when it's for him. Gamora isn't fine, but she doesn't have to be to support him and let him grieve, because what good are they doing for each other if they're tearing themselves apart individually?

She needs him to feel this as much as she needs to feel her own. ]

[ He tries to resist for another second or two longer with some vain hope that he can rein it all in, can collect himself to regain his composure, but—

It’s a losing battle, he knows. There’s no point in fighting it. He moves where he’s led, falling against her, burying his face against her neck. When she moves his hand away from his face, he lets her, and with his newly freed hand, he wraps both arms around her waist, holding her close. His entire body shakes with those sobs, though he tries to keep quiet, tries to keep them contained while Groot lies asleep in the next room.

Everything hits him at once, he thinks. Everything he’s kept dammed up since he’s been back, the bitter sense of helplessness and all of that guilt and grief that’s plagued him since he watched Thanos vanish with the Time Stone in front of his eyes. his fault his fault his fault, a constant chant in his head.

He can hear her voice in his ear, can hear the quiet, soothing cadence, though he can’t pick out the individual words, and it’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, but somehow that just makes it worse, because he’s been trying, trying so fucking hard to keep it together for Gamora, to let her lean against him for once when he’s spent so much time propped up against her. It’s unfair, he thinks, that all this shit has happened, and it’s Gamora trying to take care of him when it’s—

his fault his fault—

He gasps, wet and thick, grip tightening around her. ]

I’m sorry.

[ A ragged, frantic whisper. For this. For before. For every fuck-up between. ]

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry—

Shh...

[ Still soft. Still gentle.

She knows he blames himself, she knows he thinks he owes her these apologies, but—

He doesn't. Mistakes have been made, and there's no changing it now. She doesn't hold this against him, not at all, but she doesn't know how to convince him that it's okay. Everything around them isn't, and the world is falling apart back home (or already has), but—

Can they honestly do anything for it? Can they change the course of their universe?

(Not now. Gamora is dead, so that's it, isn't it? That's game over.)

She drops kisses over his ear, his temple, his hair, keeping up that soft patter. ]

I love you.

[ A promise. An immovable one. ]

I'm not going anywhere.

[ Not because of his mistakes, not because of hers, not because of anything. Nothing will tear her away from Peter now.

Nothing can. ]

[ It’s really stupid, he thinks, breaking down like this. Shattering. It’s so stupid, and he hates that he’s like this right now, but now that it’s started he’d have about as much luck stopping it as he would trying to stop a runaway train.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but— it’s probably a while, he figures. A long fucking while before sobs stop racking his body, before those stupid tears come to a stop. His hands still tremble where they rest against Gamora’s form, and he doesn’t have it in him to pull back. Not while he still needs the reassurance that she’s here, not while he still needs to feel her heartbeat, the rise and fall of her chest against his.

He feels wrung-out, drained, empty, and he hates this. Hates that he’s like this. Hates all of it. But—

He tucks himself more firmly against her, pulls her in closer in what would be a bruising hug on anyone else. His still-injured ribs ache with it, the wound in his arm sending up a warning flare, but he ignores it all. ]

I can’t—

[ The words catch in his throat, choking him, and near silent as they are, he trusts Gamora will hear them. ]

I can’t— lose you again.

[ Years ago (years ago), Gamora would have thought Peter's reaction to be shameful. She'd scoff at how openly he falls apart, how he breaks into little pieces in front of someone else, but now...

She's grateful for it. She's grateful that he's letting himself feel all of this loss, as long as he knows he's not going through it alone. As he slots against her, Gamora winds her arms around him, not even willing to give him an inch to budge. ]

You won't.

[ And she sounds— confident. Completely so. They have no reason to go back to their universe now, and the Quarantine is somewhere they can be together, safe, removed from Thanos and his influence, and...

They can just be here, can't they?

She kisses his forehead, his hair, dusting her lips wherever she can reach, like that seals her promise somehow. ]

Never again.

[ She sounds so certain of that, and even though a small part of him wants to be skeptical, wants to point out that there's no possible way either of them can keep a promise like that—

The other part of him, the part that still thinks wishing on stars is a viable game plan, clings to the reassurance.

His breathing is still uneven, still ragged and shaky, but he's stopped crying, at least, has calmed down enough that each inhale isn't desperate and frantic, that each exhale isn't accompanied by an ugly sob. He doesn't pull back entirely, but he gives himself enough space that he can reach up with both of his hands, wiping at his face with the back of his wrists. ]

Sorry.

[ It comes out thickly, hoarsely. This apology is a little more present, at least. He's not saying sorry for before, but sorry for now, for breaking down on her. ]

I didn't... mean for that to happen.

[ She lets him ease away, but she doesn't drop her arms from around him, instead nuzzling at his hair, his face, leaving a kiss on his forehead. ]

You don't have to apologize.

[ Not for this. ]

Is this not what girlfriends do?

[ According to so many of the movies she's seen with Peter, she's pretty sure this is at least part of her role as his partner.

Her hands slip up to bracket his face so she can wipe away more of his tears herself. ]

We should sit.

[ He doesn't quite smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward a little.

Faintly, ]

Yeah. Something like that.

[ He can't quite bring himself to meet her gaze, but he lets her wipe at the tear tracks on his face, appreciating the gentleness of her touch, the warmth of her palms against his cheeks.

At her suggestion, he nods, and reluctant as he is to pull away, he leads them back to the couch, sitting heavily. He runs one hand over the bandage wrapped around his arm, hunching in on himself as he waits for her to join him.

He hopes he didn't wake Groot. The kid could probably sleep through a tornado and barely notice, but— things have been weird lately. Maybe the kid is paying more attention than Peter gives him credit for.

In either case, it seems quiet in the bedroom, and Peter takes that as a decent sign. ]

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