( open ) did you do it?

[godslay]

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! )

Comments

[nostalgiabomb]

'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.

[godslay]

[ 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.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out a slow breath, nodding. ]

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

[godslay]

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. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He wants to argue that it's not a big deal, and really, it could've been much worse. She could have literally stabbed him, for instance, or gutted him, or slit his throat.

A quick slice out of his arm is hardly anything.

But he definitely doesn't want to belabor the point, and he thinks they less they talk about it, the better it will be. (She must feel guilty about it, he thinks; god knows he would feel the same, if he had lashed out at Gamora.)

So he turns, doing as she says, running his hand under the faucet to test the temperature. Good enough, he thinks, and he turns toward her, lips parting to speak.

The reflexive answer sits on the tip of his tongue. "I can take care of it." "You don't need to babysit me." He hesitates for a second, nearly casting the thoughts out, but he thinks better of it and swallows the words down. Instead, he strips the rest of the way, a little nervously folding the rest of his clothes before setting them aside. He steps into the shower, letting the water fall over him, and he lets out a low breath with the comforting heat of it. ]

[godslay]

[ She doesn't need to babysit him. She doesn't need to do any of this for him, and she knows that. He's not incapacitated, and— he can do it.

But it feels like there are limited ways Gamora can care for him, so if there's at least this? She's going to take it.

She strips down on her own, stepping in after Peter and resting her cheek gently on his shoulder as the water immediately starts to wet her hair. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He wipes the water from his face, shoving back his hair, and when Gamora steps into his space, when she leans against him, he wraps his arms around her waist, turning to press his lips to her brow.

It's... weird. They've been her before – recently, even – but he doesn't know if it's ever been this quiet, this subdued. They've seen and experienced some fucked up things in their time together, sure, but— never this bad, he thinks. Nothing ever this bad. ]

[godslay]

[ Gamora leans into the circle of his arms without even having to think about it. It's instinct, at this point, wanting to be close, wanting to feel him and hear him and focus on reminding herself that they're both alive. She's here. Peter is here. People they care about are here.

Right now, that's all she can ask for.

Green smoothes across pale skin as she reaches up to run her hands soothingly down his lower back, not moving her cheek from his shoulder. She doesn't need to pull away yet, doesn't need to reach for the soap, as long as she can hold onto Peter. ]

We should do something together tomorrow.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The words "if you want" bubble up, but he swallows them back down. He nods instead, running his hand up and down her back. ]

What would you wanna do?

[godslay]

[ Better.

She nuzzles absently at his neck, thoughtful for a moment. ]

We could see if they are showing Dirty Dancing again.

[ Going to see it together again, a year (by Riverview's standards) later is... romantic in its own way. Sentimental. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out a quiet breath, and the corner of his mouth quirks up briefly.

(In retrospect, it's... weird that they had their first date way before they officially became something. But it's always been about slow degrees with them, about slow, careful steps to test if it'll hold.

But still, he remembers that day, weird as it was, with a warm fondness.)

It's why he nods against her, tipping his cheek against her brow. ]

Yeah. I think I'd like that.

[godslay]

[ She relaxes against him when he agrees, something in her soothed by it.

But she pauses, thinking for a moment, and then: ]

Do you still want to bring Groot?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He hesitates at that, lips pressing together.

She had seemed— a little surprised, earlie, when he had said it wouldn't be the end of the world to bring Groot along. And he wasn't wrong, admittedly. If they couldn't find anyone to watch Groot, then it wouldn't be a big deal to bring him as their plus one.

... which is the easy explanation.

The more difficult explanation sits knotted in his chest, and he frowns, licking his lips. But he owes her an explanation, he thinks, and now that the kid isn't here to hear it, it's easier to spout it out. So— ]

I... I just don't...

[ ... well. For a given value of "easier."

He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, it's just barely audible over the hiss of the water hitting tile. ]

I— I just— like having everyone where I can see them.

[godslay]

[ She waits for that explanation. She tries to keep assumptions to herself (those knee-jerk, panicked reactions of not knowing where they stood with each other, if she'd genuinely frightened him—), and lets him continue, even as quiet as the answer comes.

... But it surprises her.

She draws back just slightly, considering his face. She gets it. She understands that gut reaction to keep everyone within sight, just in case.

Just in case.

She hand smooths over his hip, gentle, careful. ]

Do you feel like you need to?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He avoids her gaze, keeping his own fixed on some tile to one side. At her question, he lifts a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. ]

Things... tend to go pear-shaped when we're not together.

[godslay]

[ She doesn't try to make him look at her again, but just watches him quietly. ]

When we're here?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ ... admittedly, Riverview is about a million times tamer than back where they came from, and he understands what Gamora is trying to get at – but weird shit still happens, all the same.

Like that time he got kidnapped. Which totally wouldn't have happened if he had just waited around in their apartment instead of fleeing the scene after trying to present her with a gift.

It's why he gives another shrug, a quick shake of his head. ]

It just... feels better. Playing it safe, I mean.

[godslay]

[ She nods, relenting, as she presses a kiss to his shoulder. ]

All right.

[ Because it seems that's what Peter needs right now. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He takes a breath, frowning down at the floor for a second, then, ]

We can drop him off, though. If it's— if it's just for the night.

[godslay]

[ More nodding, her hands running down his back reassuringly. ]

Just for the night. We haven't had an opportunity for time, just the two of us.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He's quiet again for a second, listening to the white noise of the water. That weird, nervous knot tightens in his chest, the one that's been compelling him to be everywhere at once, the one that's telling him to be on high alert at all times.

Maybe— maybe one night off wouldn't be so bad. Just one.

It's why he hesitantly nods in return. ]

Yeah. We can try.

[godslay]

We can pick him up, if you think we need to.

[ A reassurance, if the idea of separation goes poorly, if it's too unnerving too soon.

She pulls back, just a bit, to reach for the soap, to bring it over and start to lather it against Peter's skin. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It's dumb, but the reassurance helps a little, helps to ease that weird knot, and he nods again. ]

Okay. Good.

[ He holds still for her as she runs the soap over his skin, not doing much else to help than that. He thinks – even if he's not entirely sure why, but he thinks – that she wants the feel of skin on skin, that feeling that she's doing something, anything, to help.

And even if he doesn't know the exact reasons, he can hazard a guess, and he can surely relate.

Instead, he keeps his hands at the curve of her waist, his touch light to give her room to maneuver. ]

[godslay]

[ Though she doesn't voice her thoughts, she appreciates that Peter is letting her do this for him. He took care of her, and now, it's her turn to do something for him, anything, so he isn't just dealing with this alone, like he has been. This is small, but... it's something, and it lets her feel equal again.

She runs the soap over his skin, washing away the day, bringing up a handful of bubbles to tentatively clean the knife wound. She's trying to avoid any pressure, but it needs to at least be tended to. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The wound is shallow, like Peter said, but it's still only a few days old; when the soap touches it, he still winces a little, still tenses under her touch, before he forces himself to relax. ]

Sorry. [ Quietly. ] Still kinda tender.