riverviewlogs | ( closed ) domesticity isn't so bad.

Entry tags:

( closed ) domesticity isn't so bad.

who: Peter Quill and Gamora
what: An evening in the life of ridiculous space dummies.
when: August 11th — right before the amnesia event.
where: Community housing: floor 13, room 4
warnings: None!

[ Despite the fact that they've only been in the city for over a month, it's become surprisingly easy to find a new routine. It's far more laidback in comparison to their usual fare – less scrambling for legal and slightly-less-than-legal jobs – and only having to share a room with Peter is much better than the way they'd all been living on top of each other back on the Milano. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to adjust to the Quadrant, but their apartment is cleaner than the overall ship itself, so it has that in its favor. (That excludes the general messiness that comes from living with Peter, but that's bearable.)

But everything feels easier. The weight of the galaxy doesn't sit on their shoulders, they don't have to report to the Nova Corps, they aren't constantly recognized by "fans" or otherwise so— it's different. Gamora has a normal (emphasis on "normal") job for the first time in her life, and though it also happens to involve killing monsters and protecting anyone meandering beyond the wall, she has something as mundane as shifts. She reports in, handles a squad of her own for the Guard, but then she goes home for dinner like everyone else.

But being home for dinner means that a regular meal at roughly the same time has become part of her schedule, and since hers and Peter's shifts tend to coincide more often than not, that usually means they see to their dinner together. They've managed to sample a good deal of the restaurants the city has to offer, and their fridge is generally full of whatever leftovers they've had for the week; they don't cook much, but they still somehow manage to sit to eat together most nights.

It becomes a habit. In fact, she'd be more surprised by Peter missing dinner than she is by how they've fallen into such a domestic routine.

And that's what it is, isn't it? Domestic. Living together, eating together, spending downtime together. Sometimes that includes Mantis (because Gamora has become oddly protective of her, tentatively treating her like any of the other Guardians), but sometimes, it's little more than absently keeping busy near or with each other in the hour or so they may have to spare.

(Though as the days roll by, she's become especially fond of something as simple as waking up in the morning to see Peter snoring softly in the bed across from her. Sharing space isn't new, surely, but with their unfamiliar surroundings and all of this change – both here and back in their own universe–, just seeing him helps.

It makes her smile, and somehow, for the first time in a long time, she feels less displaced.)

Tonight, she comes bearing a bag of pasta for their dinner in various red and white sauces. She's discovered that this kind of food is actually tasty, and though she'd never experienced any of these sauces before coming to this city, she's decided that the Terran ones Peter had her try are more than worthwhile.

She unlocks the front door, letting herself inside, and then kicks it closed as she heads to the small kitchen to set down their food. She starts going through the boxes, putting them out one by one, before going to fetch a couple of plates and forks for them both (while ignoring the small pile of dishes already in the sink; they should probably take care of that tonight, but she maintains that it's Peter's turn again).

She pauses long enough to pull out her communicator and fire off a text. ]

Hurry up if you want to eat before it gets cold.

Or I'm going to start without you.

[ Probably not, but still. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He's still smiling that stupid smile, thankfully hidden from Gamora by the way she presses against him. Once she seems settled, he curls his arm around her shoulders, head tilting to rest his cheek atop her head.

Shit. He could really get used to this.

Another rerun of Pals plays on the television, but Peter doesn't pay it much mind, intent as he is on the way Gamora presses against him, on the way she just— fits. And maybe a silly, hopelessly romantic part of him insists it's like she's a missing puzzle piece, like she was always meant to be there, but the logical part of him tells him that this only feels so right because they've been chipping away at this for so long.

They haven't broken through completely yet, but— maybe soon, Peter hopes. Maybe pretty soon, one or both of them will work up the nerve to punch through the mental hangups standing between them like a wall. Maybe they can figure out how this might work, in the wake of everything else.

Peter likes to believe he doesn't hope much, anymore, likes to say he stopped wishing for things a long time ago. That's an absolute lie, and one need look no further than right now, where his heart drums beneath Gamora's hand, beating out a constant chant:

please, please, please.

shit, shit, shit.

He fell asleep.

Shit.

The ugly, gray light of pre-dawn slants in through the blinds. Peter doesn't rouse, so much as he winces awake. His head pounds as a news caster drones away on the screen in front of him, smiling brightly as she speaks on some feel-good fluff piece. Shit, his head hurts. Really badly. Enough that the polite little chuckles exchanged by the anchorwoman and her cohost pierce straight through his brain.

Fuck. What did he do last night?

On the bright side, he thinks, trying to reassure himself, at least he's got both hands free. He could've woken up cuffed to a headboard or cuffed to a chair. Again.

Whatever it was he got up to last night, it has something to do with the chick curled against his side, her chest rising and falling evenly with the peace of sleep. And oh no, he thinks, even with what little he can see of her from this angle, goddamn. She's hot. But they're both fully clothed, which is confusing, but maybe they fucked and then dressed again? For— some reason? That's probably a good explanation, he thinks, because he seriously, seriously hopes something happened between them last night.

'Cause if all they did was cuddle, then Peter got cheated out of a good time.

He glances around the room, squinting in the dim light afforded by the not-quite-risen sun to find his gear. Okay, good, there's his jacket, draped on the back of a chair. And there are his guns, resting atop the desk. Easy as pie. He can grab them up and slip out before the girl wakes up.

With his free hand he scrubs sleep from his eyes and takes a slow breath, holding it in his lungs. Here we go, Star-Lord. You can do this. Slow and easy, just like Indie with the Golden Idol at the start of Raiders. And carefully, he moves to extract himself. ]

[ The fact that Gamora fell asleep is impressive enough. The fact that she stays asleep and happily curled against Peter's chest is another feat of its very own. (Though there was one moment, in the middle of the night, that she opened her eyes long enough to reassure herself that neither of them had moved, and that was enough to send her back to sleep with Peter's heartbeat soothing her.)

However, that doesn't make her any less of an incredibly light sleeper, and as soon as Peter starts to extract himself, her eyes snap open, immediately alert.

Her first instinct is to clamp down on his shirt, her body tensing like she might throw him over the edge of the couch, but—

Then she seems to realize again that this is Peter, and nothing happened. She was so at ease that she simply drifted off against his chest.

(Distantly, she thinks that perhaps she could get used to this.)

She blinks slowly as her grip eases on his shirt, and she tips her chin up to look at him.

That soft, vague smile from the night before is back, curling at the corner of her mouth. ]

Unsurprising that episode was boring enough to sleep through.

[ She doesn't let go of him, not quite realizing he'd been trying to get away. ]

[ Oh fuck.

He freezes, eyes widening, not daring to breathe as her grip tightens on his shirt. Crap, this one's gonna be like that Rajak girl and the fork all over again, and even with his body stock-still, his mind flies straight into panic mode.

But she relaxes without his helpful input (which probably would've amounted to little more than, "Hey, hey, uh, let's be cool"), and he slowly lets out the breath he had been holding. When she looks up at him, that same oh no, she's hot thought flies through his pounding head again. That smile is so soft and holy shit, she's a bombshell, and he really, really wishes he remembered what happened last night.

He also wishes he remembered her name. That'd be a convenient thing to have. Knowing folks' names and using them always made things easier, tended to make folks more friendly so that when he needed to make a quick escape, they were more likely to let him.

He has no idea what she's talking about when she speaks, but he plays along, huffing out a quick laugh. ]

Guess it must've been.

[ She doesn't pull away like he expects her to, and— that's going to be a problem. Alright, Quill, think fast.

He shifts a little, not nearly enough to dislodge her, but enough to make his intentions clear. ]

You mind if I get up? [ He puts on an apologetic sort of smile. ] I seriously need to stretch before I end up more knotted than a pretzel.

[ ... never mind that most folks he uses that line on have no idea what a pretzel is. ]

[ Thanks to this city, Gamora actually knows what a pretzel is, and has even experienced one for herself. (She's found them quite pleasing, actually.) Which also means that she doesn't give Peter a strange look for mentioning it – if anything, his words are barely anything to bat an eyelash at. As much as she would prefer staying put (a strange thought, actually), she's willing to admit that remaining tangled together has... implications they haven't discussed.

But really, what have they discussed at this point? That unspoken thing remains unspoken, despite moments between them.

It's probably better if she gets up, now that they're awake.

She shakes her head, drawing back and giving him room to move. She rolls her shoulders, stretching slightly as she glances over at him. ]

Are we having leftovers for breakfast or would you prefer we go get something?

[ There's still plenty of pasta, after all, but it's easier to have for dinner, rather than something she might actively choose for herself. ]

[ With the extra space afforded to him, Peter moves to stand – not too quickly, of course – and true to his word, he stretches his arms high overhead. A few of his joints pop, and he stretches his neck from one side to the other as he takes a few slow steps toward his belongings.

At her question, he glances at her over his shoulder.

... Oh.

She's one of those.

He lets out a rueful sort of sigh. ]

Oh, man, I'd love to stick around, but I've really gotta head out. Gotta meet a guy. Did I not mention it last night?

[ ... Now that's odd. She's certain Peter would have mentioned if he had some sort of meeting in place; not that they constantly account for their location with each other, but— ]

I thought it was our day off.

[ She frowns at him, clearly confused. ]

Were we not going to the concert in the gardens this afternoon?

[ There was supposed to be a small performance, something a little quieter in comparison to the rowdier parties and musical events thanks to the River Festival, and Gamora knows they talked about it earlier in the week.

Did he forget they had plans? ]

[ ... what is she even saying to him right now.

He keeps the confusion off his face, at least, because he's pretty sure that would piss her off, while his mind races for a suitable way out of this.

He breathes out an incredulous sort of laugh, flashing her a disbelieving smile. ]

Of course we're still going to the concert. What, you thought I forgot?

[ He heads over to the desk, where his blasters sit beside some little dark brown device with a wire wrapped around it. Not his, though, so he's careful not to disturb it. ]

I just— I promised I'd meet someone. Just for the morning. I'll be back before you even know it.

Or, hey— [ This, as he's scooping up his jacket. At least, he's pretty sure it's his jacket; it's red, which is pretty much his signature color, even if the weight of it is a little off. ] —hey, why don't I just meet you there? That way you don't have to wait up.

[ There's something wholly intent about the way Gamora is watching him now, caution mingled with that bafflement, but—

Some of that starts to ease when he suggests they meet at the concert. They don't have to go together, she realizes, and perhaps consolidating isn't the worst idea.

She turns on the couch, watching him gather up his things. ]

All right. I don't mind meeting there.

[ Though her next concern: ]

... Are you going out before you change?

[ She knows Peter can have questionable habits at times, but it's not like all of his clothes are dirty right now – she assumes? Maybe he's put off laundry until he had downtime. ]

... Uh?

[ He blurts it out before he can stop himself, but he recovers as quickly as he can. Putting on a roguish sort of smile, he spreads an arm. With a clearly affected air of overconfidence, ]

Am I not already perfectly presentable?

[ The quick recovery keeps the outright suspicion out of Gamora's expression, the way he tries to play it off making her roll her eyes instead. ]

You slept in those clothes. Unless you've procrastinated on all of your laundry, you might as well put on something fresh.

[ It wouldn't surprise her, really, but sometimes it's hard to tell; he doesn't usually fold his clean clothes either, so differentiating between what needs to be washed and already has can be difficult (aside from her insisting that he keep his mess to his own part of the apartment). ]

[ Is she.

Is she implying he has clothes here? Here? Wherever the hell here is?

What the hell is even happening right now?

No. Okay. That's a puzzle for later. For now, he just needs to leave. Once he's outside, he hopes after a bit of wandering, things will look familiar enough to lead him back to the Milano. ]

I'll be fine.

[ He says it lightly, clicking his blasters into place at his hips. ]

I figure the sooner I get this done with, the sooner I can meet up with you for that concert.

[ Gamora shrugs in a sort of "your choice" way, drawing herself up to go investigate the refrigerator. ]

That sounds fine.

[ She pauses in the kitchen, glancing back over at him. ]

Do not be late.

[ She trusts that he'll make the concert (because when does Peter pass up the opportunity to enjoy music and perhaps some dancing?), but she doesn't want to be sitting around by herself for too many songs. ]

[ Another incredulous laugh as he's shrugging into his jacket. ]

Are you kidding me? I wouldn't miss it for anything.

[ ... As tempting as a concert sounds, he definitely needs to get the fuck out of here. He's hungover, and he's tired, and also, what is with this chick? She's acting like— like they're a thing. An item. A live-in couple.

And, wow, no. Regardless of how well last night might have gone – and he hopes really well, even if he can't remember it – Peter Quill does not do domestic.

He pats down his pockets, making sure he has everything, but he freezes when he doesn't feel the familiar blocky shape of the Walkman. Another pat down, and then he's stuffing his hands into his pockets, casting around the room. ]

Hey, uh. [ This, called out as he's checking the couch cushions. He tries to restrain the rising note of panic in his voice. ] Did I have my music player on me last night? Little boxy thing. Wired headphones. [ Maybe he left it on the Milano? ] You seen it?

Edited 2017-08-20 00:42 (UTC)

[ Gamora stops with her hand on the refrigerator door, turning to carefully look over at him. She saw him gathering up his things, and his Zune was right there, beside his guns.

How had he overlooked it?

She draws away from the fridge, moving over to gesture back to the desk; the Zune is there, little and boxy with wired headphones. ]

It's where you left it, Peter.

[ Literally right in front of him. ]

[ He looks up long enough from digging through the couch to follow her gesture, and—

He casts the device a skeptical look. That brown thing with the wire. What the hell even is that? Whatever it is, it isn't what Peter's looking for. ]

No, that's— Okay.

[ Peter straightens, grunting with frustration. He clenches both hands into quick fists before he forces himself to calm down. ]

It's, like, dark metallic blue and silver. An orange button on it. About this big. [ He squares up his hands to demonstrate. ] The headphones have orange padding.

Ringing any bells?

[ Now Gamora is concerned. Of course she knows exactly what he's describing; she'd held it in her own hands, listened to it on more than a few occasions, and Peter is— was never without it.

They just discussed this a few days ago; how could he already have forgotten or—

How could he have forgotten in the first place? ]

Your Walkman?

[ She asks it slowly, careful in case they're misunderstanding each other. Seeing him so agitated is strange, too, especially with how he's brushed aside the Zune, when that's clearly the only music player he has now. ]

Yes. [ That unmistakable note of relief in his voice, and he lets out a breath, some of the tension leaving his frame. ] Yeah. My Walkman. Did I have it on me last night? Have you seen it?

[ Something is wrong. Something is very wrong, and Gamora completely abandons the kitchen, approaching Peter without taking her eyes off of him. ]

I haven't seen it since before we came here.

[ He knows that, because the Walkman didn't leave Ego's planet; the Zune was the replacement (or, well, perhaps "consolation," since nothing could replace that gift from his mother). ]

We just talked about this.

[ Does he not remember the conversation? Does he not remember what happened? ]

[ That makes his heart drop, and it shows on his face for a second.

But, no, okay. That's— don't jump to conclusions, Quill. ]

We did? [ Absently, briefly forgetting he was putting up a front. He realizes it a split-second later, though, and gives a quick, impatient nod. ]

Right. Yes. Of course we did.

[ He drags a hand down his face, mouth dropping open as he heaves out a breath. ]

... Okay. That's— okay. [ Mostly to himself. ] Okay. It's fine. I must have just left it back on the ship, that's all.

[ This is fine. ]

[ —And this continues to get worse. ]

What ship? There is no ship, Peter.

[ The Milano isn't here. The Quadrant isn't here.

Nothing is here. ]

Where do you think you are?

[ What could possibly be going on with him that he thinks he has anywhere else to go? That he thinks his Walkman is still... anywhere? ]

[ ... Oh. Okay.

Welp. That low simmering panic is starting to pick up, now, and he drags his gaze over to her.

Slowly, a note of warning in his voice, ]

What do you mean, there's no ship?

[ Where the fuck is the Milano? ]

I mean the ship was left behind, with everything else.

[ Everyone else – other than Mantis.

But Gamora is confused, because this lapse in memory... when could it have happened? He's been with her all night, and she assumes that if he was injured, it would have been obvious; something that affects his memory wouldn't be minor. ]

Peter. [ And this is firm, but forcefully calm as she repeats, ] Where do you think we are?

[ See, now that's a difficult question to answer, because he has no friggin' clue. The last thing he remembers is— a little blurry. Celebrating a job well done, probably? Or celebrating a job gone to shit. It's a toss-up, with the Ravagers. ]

Listen. [ That same measured tone, but something cold edges into it, now. ] Just. If you know where my Walkman is, tell me. I'm not messing around, here.

[ When was even the last time she heard him take that tone with her? Even when they'd fought, it had been so— emotional. Explosive. Not that level coolness. ]

It—

[ She has no idea how she's supposed to tell him this. She almost wants to avoid the question entirely; he needs a better idea of where they are and of what is going on, and—

She finally realizes: does he even know who she is right now? ]

It's gone. Along with your mother's tapes.

—What?

[ Punched out of him, barely voiced. Something stabs through his chest, and he presses a hand to his sternum, like that might somehow relieve the way ice crackles through him.

(Distracted as he is, he doesn't even register that she said "tapes.") ]

What the hell do you mean, "gone"? Just tell me where they are.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject