( 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]

[ He shuts his eyes briefly, trying to steady himself, before he meets her gaze. One of his hand reaches up to curl his fingers around her wrist, and he cants one cheek more firmly into her grip. ]

Yeah?

[godslay]

[ It's another moment where Gamora operates so much more on action than speech. She waits until he looks at her, waits until he's refocused, and she just— watches him for a moment. Holds his gaze.

And then leans in for another kiss. It's still soft, still sweet in that way that always promises I love you.

(There's gratitude behind it now, too. Something relieved that wasn't there before.) ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ It's strange how he can tell the difference.

A few days ago, the kisses they had shared had been desperate, frantic, shadowed with something ugly. Now, though, it's— softer around the edges, a little less hurried. He lets himself fall into it a little, feels that way she seems to relax against him, and—

It's better. It's not back to normal – because he's not sure if it will be for a long while yet – but it's better.

And when he pulls back, with water from the shower head still cascading over their shoulders and kicking up a warm mist, he wraps her in a hug, ducking down to press his brow to hers. Gamora has always been the type to act, sure, but Peter's a talker. It's why he offers up easily, ]

I love you.

[godslay]

[ The kiss breaks, gently, soft, and Gamora nudges her nose against Peter's as his forehead presses to hers. It's been years since she's hesitated to return the sentiment, and there's no pause or hitch before she speaks. ]

I love you, too.

[ More than anything. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He shuts his eyes for a second, appreciating how solid she is against him, how warm and soft, but soon enough he lets out a breath, pulling back a little to tip his head to one side. ]

We'd better get out before we use up all the hot water in the building.

[godslay]

[ She doesn't quite smile, but she nods, reaching out to shut off the water. She has their towels in her hands once she steps away from Peter, offering one to him as she steps off tile onto the bathmat. ]

Dry off.

[ She doesn't wrap her towel around her torso, but instead, bundles up her hair in it as she goes to dig around for their bandages. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ And once again, his lips part to argue – not with that need to deflect, this time, but with that familiar reflex to be contrary.

"You could at least say please."

And that's— slightly more familiar ground. For a second, he looks surprised at himself, but he shakes it off, stepping out of the shower and grabbing his towel from her. It's a quick, cursory thing, tousling his hair and wiping himself down, but he wraps the towel around his waist. ]

[godslay]

[ Her head inclines slightly towards him at the way he opens his mouth, pausing to wait, but no complaints follow as she plucks up the depleted roll of bandages. She's still dripping wet, but doesn't seem to mind in the slightest as she approaches him, gently taking his arm to start winding the tape over his wound.

It's healing, fortunately, but the fact that it's there at all still makes something twinge in Gamora's chest; Peter can reassure her all he likes, but that doesn't change that he's wearing the mark (and likely another scar) because of her.

But once it's covered, the roll goes back into their medicine cabinet, and Gamora finally seems concerned with drying off properly. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Close as they are, it's hard to miss that shadow that crosses her expression. If he had gotten this wound from anyone else, she'd probably be lecturing him on carelessness, on not keeping his guard up.

It's different, and they both know it, and he knows that his attempts at reassuring her would fall on deaf ears. She feels guilty, and she probably will until the skin heals together, until the scar fades away. He'd be in the same boat, if their roles were switched.

But Peter really doesn't care about the wound, because it's a concrete reminder that she's here. That he didn't dream her return.

With one hand still holding the towel in place, he comes up from behind, rests his other hand on the curve of her waist. He presses his lips to her temple as she dries herself off. ]

Thank you.

[godslay]

[ She runs her towel across her shoulder, pausing when Peter steps in, winding his arm around her. She leans back into him, finally nodding in acknowledgement of his gratitude. She wants to thank him for letting her, for giving her the leeway and the freedom to just do... something for him.

But she doesn't.

She turns her head towards him, sighing softly. ]

Anything for you.

[ Usually, Peter is the one to promise that, but—

Gamora means it. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The words give him pause. They’re familiar. Of course they’re familiar, but usually they’re coming from him, murmured out with a soft little look, a gentle brush of his fingers along her cheek. He’s heard the same from Gamora – sometimes teasing, sometimes genuine – but all the same, it always manages to draw a smile from him.

And it does the same now. Small, sure, but genuine, even as his eyes prickle again, and he ducks down to press his lips to her shoulder, hiding it away. ]