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 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.

[ He falls against her, breathing in the smell of her soap and shampoo, soaking in the warmth of her.

They sit like that for a while – longer than could possibly comfortable even under normal circumstances – but eventually Peter lets out a breath through his lips, trying to pull back.

A little apologetically, ]

Still kinda banged up.

[ Which is to say, his bruised ribs are starting to ache. ]

[ She's content to hold him until he finally has to sit up. She lets him move away, helping him upright as she casts a short glance towards his ribs, his bandaged arm. ]

Do you need ice? A shower?

[ It's her turn to at least do something for him, to do just a little of the caretaking. ]

[ He shakes his head instinctively, but— he glances over at her, slightly torn.

That impulse to take care of her, to put himself on the back burner, is still there, but— she's told him explicitly that isn't what she needs or wants. And maybe he's been smothering her, admittedly. Maybe he's been doing more harm than good every time he jumped to attention to take care of whatever little task she had set herself to.

... and maybe that's part of why she was so hard on her teammates today, and he feels a brief pang of guilt.

His jaw clenches briefly with indecision, but at length, ]

Maybe a shower.

[ She watches him sharply, recognizing that hesitation (and assuming Peter's about to brush her off in favor of taking care of her instead), but—

No.

He relents.

She nods, reaching up to comb through his hair once before she gets to her feet. ]

Let's take care of that. I want to clean your arm, too.

[ He mirrors her nod before standing as well, pausing for a second.

(If he's honest, he's not sure if he needs even this. He's certainly well enough to take care of himself – physically, at the very least. But Gamora wants to help just as much as he does, and there's really no harm in leaning on her, is there? Not while she's standing steady for him?)

He lets her lead the way to the bathroom, and he pulls off his shirt as he goes. By now, the bruising along his side and back has started to fade into yellows and greens and purples – nowhere near as vivid since his run-in with that weird monster – but an odd twist or turn still makes him grimace. Admittedly, he hasn't been tending to them as much as he should, but Peter has never been very good at nursing his injuries. ]

[ Gamora gets the water running, turns it to an appropriate temperature (for Peter, not necessarily herself), before turning to get a look at her stripping boyfriend. She takes note of the bruises, but doesn't comment, doesn't mention that he could go easier on himself, but steps forward to gently start unwrapping the bandage on his arm. ]

How is this healing?

[ ... This helps. It's small and it's not much, but Gamora is realizing that—

This helps. ]

'S fine.

[ The automatic answer again, and he pauses to wince at himself. At the very least, he lets her unwind the bandage instead of pulling away.

A little more thoughtfully, he adds on, ]

It wasn't very deep to begin with. Just— kind of an annoying spot.

[ She runs her thumb under the cut, a little twist sitting in the corner of her mouth. She doesn't apologize again, like a part of her wants to. She doesn't insist that it shouldn't have happened in the first place, that's it's not fine.

That doesn't help either of them.

She nods, leaning in to brush a kiss over his cheek. ]

Be gentler on it.

[ He lets out a slow breath, nodding. ]

I'm trying. It's all right, though. It's not that bad. Honest.

It's still there.

[ From her, which is bad enough. ]

The less you strain it, the faster it will heal.

[ But she sighs, not sounding terribly argumentative over it as she leans over to kiss his shoulder. ]

Check the water.

[ —said as she pulls away to start undoing her vest. ]

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