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

[ 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. ]

[ Gamora isn't about to make him wait long, and she settles on the couch beside him. She reaches out to pull him close again, hardly willing to let any real time slip by that keep them apart, not when he's so freshly unraveled. ]

Come here.

[ An offer and a request in one, because she wants to hold onto him again, to maybe stretch out on the couch together, to just... breathe.

They both need it. ]

[ At the very least, he doesn't hesitate to move close to her, to move into the circle of her arms when she reaches for him. He tucks himself her side again, burying his face against her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist.

It's— comforting, and while there are still a few barriers between them, he thinks this might the closest they've been since Gamora came back.

He's quiet for a long while, trying to stay anchored in the moment while half of him tries to wander off and float away. He licks his lips, and even if she told him he doesn't have to, he still offers another, ]

I'm sorry.

[ He pauses, clearing his throat, but it does nothing for the roughness of his voice. ]

For... earlier. I just— I want to take care of you and everyone.

[ To make up for his inability to do the same back home. ]

I don't... I don't wanna screw up again.

[ She resettles with Peter as he practically curls around her, making it more comfortable for them both to lean back. She nuzzles gently at his hair, finding an absent pattern to trace on his shoulder, above the knife wound. ]

I know.

[ She drops a kiss on his forehead with a sigh. ]

But that is not what I need. Or what you need.

[ He lets out a breath, and in a different moment, it might have been a laugh. ]

How do you know what I need?

[ A genuine question, because Peter sure as hell doesn’t know the answer. ]

Because I have already seen what you tried. This was not working.

[ She may not have the perfect solution, but she knows it won't involve running himself ragged and pretending to be fine. ]

[ Another quiet huff – not quite bitter, but dangerously close. ]

Fair.

[ With a touch of resignation.

He falls quiet for a second before pulling back far enough to study her face. He frees one of his hands to wipe at his eyes, but the other arm he keeps wrapped firmly around her waist. ]

What about you? What do you need?

[ She doesn't avert her gaze or refuse to look at him, and instead, she's thoughtfully quiet. ]

I don't know yet.

[ Which is the honest answer.

But— ]

I... think this helps.

[ This. Peter. Just knowing she has him and letting herself try to find some regular rhythm with him. ]

[ He casts her a slightly incredulous look, or as incredulous as he can manage with his eyes puffy and bloodshot. ]

... This.

[ Flatly and skeptically. Because having some asshole breakdown on you doesn’t sound like Peter’s idea of a good time. ]

You.

[ She specifies that as she reaches up to brush back his messy hair, running her thumb under his puffy eye. ]

[ He falls quiet again, leaning into her touch, breathing in deeply, unsteadily.

Another apology bubbles up, sits on the tip of his tongue. And it’s more or less as he predicted: once he started in on it, it feels impossible to stop himself, to keep the apologies from gushing up his throat. There are a million things to feel and say sorry for, a million things that he’s taken onto his shoulders, and he doesn’t know if he’d ever be able to make up for them, even if he spent the next four lifetimes trying to set things right.

He reaches up, presses her hand against his face, cants his cheek into her palm. ]

I love you.

[ He meant to say it earlier when she told him the same thing; it didn’t feel right, then, and he didn’t have the voice for it, besides.

Now, though, the words come easier, cast softly as they are. ]

[ A slow, heavy sigh escapes her when he touches her cheek, and it's... such a relief. Just that touch, just that slip of the barriers between them for something more... real. ]

I love you, too.

[ More than anything.

It comes easier now, she thinks, than it had when they'd first been in Riverview. There's so many years between then and now that it almost feels silly. ]

[ It’s ridiculous, how soothing it is to hear it said back.

They’ve had four years together, four years to get used to exchanging the words back and forth, but even now, Peter still feels his chest tighten when he hears it, something sweet and warm. It’s muted, these days, with everything that’s happened, but he still feels it, all the same.

At length, he lets out a long breath, sagging a little, ducking his head. ]

Are you—

[ —all right? But that feels stupid to ask. Of course she’s not. Neither of them is. He presses his lips together and corrects, ]

—are you gonna be okay?

[ That's a good question, and she thinks— ]

I will be.

[ It takes time. This is so much to process, so much to try and piece together again, but—

She has Peter. She has Groot and Mantis, and she's alive here, so...

She's not okay right now.

But she will be. ]

Will you?

[ He falls silent, thinking it over. It takes him a while to settle on an answer, and what he settles on is, ]

...I dunno.

[ Which, admittedly is hardly satisfying – but it’s the honest response, rather than the reflexive one. ]

I hope so.

[ (Even if there’s a part of him that still insists— that still screams that he has to make up for it all.) ]

[ She nuzzles at his hair with a soft, understanding sound. ]

Whatever it is you need. Any time. You tell me.

[ She's not going to abandon him to try piecing out this tragedy on his own, and... she knows that won't help either of them. ]

[ He hesitates for a second—

And that’s stupid. That’s really just— so dumb. Because before this, the answer would have been easy. Gamora would’ve opened her arms, and he would’ve stepped into them without a second thought. He’d lean on her, and she’d lean on him, and it always just... worked.

And it sucks how much this has changed that, but it was always going to, wasn’t it? The shit with Thanos was too huge for any of them, and win or lose, it was bound to shake shit up for better or worse. So maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised that it takes him a hair too long to answer.

But he nods, slowly tucking himself back against her side, face buried against her neck. ]

I just need you.

[ She sees it, hears it in the silence and the short pause, but she can't blame him for it. She really can't.

Her arms wind tight around him, holding him against her, unyielding, unwilling to let him budge. ]

You have me. All of me.

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