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

[ 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.

[ It's hard to be frustrated when she knows how catastrophic this must be for him. She can't imagine how it broke him to pieces when he watched Ego destroy his Walkman in front of him, and here Gamora is, breaking the news to him all over again.

This is the worst place to start. ]

They aren't anywhere. They were broken. Weeks ago.

[ Maybe— the reminder will help? Maybe it will jog his memory?

But she's so preoccupied with the "why" and the "how" of it that she's barely thinking about the "when." She doesn't quite understand what point he's coming from now, because she's wrapped up in concerning herself over what caused this. ]

[ That coldness plummets straight down into his gut, and his expression goes slack. ]

What?

[ He stares at her for a long while, mind completely blank, but anger, frustration, starts edging in, and he gives a sharp shake of his head. ]

No. You're— I don't know why, but you're lying.

I just had it. [ As far as he can remember, anyway. He doesn't know who the fuck this chick is, doesn't know why the fuck she knows so much about his Walkman – or at least enough to know his mom put together the tape – but more and more, she's slipping out of the friend category into foe.

He takes a step back, a hand twitching toward his blaster without quite settling. His voice rises, agitation and irritation taking hold. ] I dunno what you're trying to prove, here, but it can't be gone. It just— can't.

[ Oh, but Gamora knows when to anticipate an attack, and just because this is Peter, doesn't mean her eyes aren't immediately following the twitch of his hand, that she doesn't instantly tense and ready herself to get out of the way – and potentially retaliate.

She'll absolutely disarm him if she has to.

Her own hand stays away from Godslayer, because she isn't going to draw on him; that wouldn't exactly help the situation, and whatever this is, whatever is wrong with him, she won't let it become a full-blown fight. ]

I am not lying, Peter Quill.

[ Firm, insistent, though she tries to keep the edge of emotion out of her tone; this is... hard. Harder than she would have ever expected it could be. The way he talks to her, the way he looks at her – like she's little more than a stranger to him. ]

The Walkman is gone. It was destroyed, but not by my hand. I need you to tell me what you remember last.

Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?

[ She's trying to keep her own voice level, to not let this spark into something it doesn't have to be. The downside is that there's no easy way to explain this. There's nothing that can be done to make this tactful or tentative; it just has to be addressed and it has to be as clear as possible. ]

[ He was trying to maintain that front, trying to pretend he knows her and everything the must have gotten up to last night, but the act falls away in an instant. His Walkman can't have been destroyed. He just— he was just listening to it the other day. Probably. He thinks. He can't— ]

I have no fucking clue.

[ He blurts it out, angry and panicked and— confused, because this is really fucking bad. He's had some rough nights before, but never as bad as this, never with someone who held all the fucking cards. Usually he had some sort of bargaining chip, something to work with, but—

No. He's got nothing. Fuzz in place of memory, and it's pissing him the hell off. ]

No fucking idea. Where this is. What's going on. Who the hell you are. So you're seriously gonna wanna start talking, lady, because I'm getting seriously ticked off.

What the hell is happening right now?

Edited 2017-08-20 04:47 (UTC)

[ Gamora thought she'd braced herself for it – she thought she was ready to hear it come flying out of his mouth. All of his confusion had been building steadily towards this, making her doubt more and more that he knew what was going on and—

Clearly, he doesn't.

He's completely lost and adrift and clueless, and that means he's forgotten months' worth of events. How? What triggered this? How did they get here from last night?

These are questions she, apparently, will have to answer for herself, because Peter is clearly going to be no help.

But right now, getting him caught up should be her main concern. ]

I don't know what's happening.

[ That's the easiest answer – if not simultaneously the hardest. She hates not having an explanation, for herself or for him. ]

This place is called the Quarantine. It's a city that you and I have been brought to from our own world. We've been here for over a month now.

[ She gestures at the apartment around him. ]

This is where we live. Before this, you and I and others were living on board one of the Quadrants, after we spent months on the Milano.

Something has happened, and I do not know what it is or how to fix it yet.

[ That's—

An entire month? When he was pretty sure he had just docked in the Eclector the other day? ]

That doesn't make any sense.

[ Sharply. Yondu's faction of Ravagers didn't allow women. A distraction, the old bastard says. There was a time and a place for the "nookie nookie," as the idiot was so fond of putting it, and it wasn't aboard the Eclector.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to keep his panic at bay. Why the hell does she know so much? About his Walkman, about his mom's tape, about the ships he lived on? It adds credibility to her story, sure, but how the hell does he just lose a month? It's not like losing keys or something. It's not like he just set it down somewhere and forgot about it after the fact. ]

How the hell am I supposed to believe— any of this?

[ Ah, but how to break it to him that's it's more than just a month?

Maybe she'll come to that later. ]

I know it seems impossible.

[ Because if she remembered so little? If she'd lost everything that had happened with Peter and the Guardians... well, this would be a very different conversation.

Potentially a very violent one. ]

I—

[ She stops, hesitating, and then reaches for the communicator in her pocket. ]

Here. Come look at this.

[ He stays rooted to the spot for a long while, watching her warily. It takes a long while, but he takes a hesitant step toward her, then another.

(If his hand moves toward his blaster again, he's barely aware of it.) ]

What am I looking at?

[ Gamora doesn't show any measure of impatience as she waits – giving him the chance to come closer at his own pace, like offering a dog a hand and trusting it won't decide to bite.

"What am I looking at?" ]

Yourself.

[ She flips through the communicator, glancing through the archives for Peter's last open call to the network, and she finds it on the correct date. There are multiple files accompanying it, timestamps galore, and she fastfowards through some of it.

She holds the screen up to him as a smaller picture of Peter is playing on the communicator, holding the Zune up to the camera.

"Don’t suppose anyone here’s familiar enough with this that they can show me how to add stuff?"

And she hits pause.

She fastforwards again, and this time, when she hits play, Peter's mid-sentence when a dirty rag comes flying at his face.

"Oh, real mature, Gamora—"

He chucks the rag back at her on the screen, and Gamora pauses the video again, offering the communicator to Peter with his own face peering into the camera from the days old recording. ]

[ He watches her, mistrust clear in his face, but when she hits play, he hears— well. That sounds like him, but you always sound different to yourself than you actually do, so maybe it's—

No. He glances at the device in her hands. That's— that's definitely him. He'd recognize his own handsome face anywhere. ]

What the hell?

[ This, breathed out. Him, with that weird brown device in his hand. Him, smiling and shrugging and laughing. Him, doing all this shit and having no memory of it. She holds out the device to him, and doesn't quite snatch it from her, but it's a close thing. He fast forwards through it, again and again and again.

—ift. From my dad. (what the fuck?)
—holy crap, I love Ferris Bue—
—try “Cherry Bomb” by the Runaways. “Ballroom Blitz” by Sweet—
The radio was kind of constantly on when I—
Just Star-Lord wor—
—doing the legwork, give "You Send Me" or "Cupid" a—

His grip goes slack on the device, though not enough to drop it. ]

What the shit? [ Somehow even fainter. ]

I don't remember any of this.

[ He stares at the screen for a second or two longer – a frozen image of himself with a tentative smile on his face – before he drags his gaze up to her. A flicker of anger sparks itself to mask that strange bit of fear snaking through him. ]

What the fuck is going on?

Edited (273 icons and i forget to pic one) 2017-08-20 09:51 (UTC)

[ Gamora genuinely can't imagine how surreal it must be to see himself on the device and have no recollection of it. It's him, clearly him, in this very apartment, laughing and grinning and being himself, while Gamora sits off-camera, cleaning her sword. It's still fresh for her, still only set apart by days, and she remembers smiling to herself in certain moments, rolling her eyes more often than not, and—

(The next day at work, she'd looked up "You Send Me" and "Cupid."

She listened to them for the rest of her shift.) ]

If I had an answer for you, I would give it.

[ She says it with a grave look on her face. She means that, and she itches for an explanation, to know what's caused this developing mess. ]

We will find out.

[ A promise. ]

"We."

[ He repeats it flatly, skeptically. Yesterday, seeing that steely determination might have reassured him, might have made him feel better about whatever mess he had gotten himself into.

Today, though, Peter doesn't know what to do with it. His wariness returns in full force, and he holds the device out to her. ]

Listen, I'm sure you mean well— [ He's not, in fact, sure of this at all, and it shows with the sharpness of his voice, with the way he gives her another once over like he's looking for tells. ] —but I still have no clue who the hell you are.

[ It— stings more than Gamora thought it might, to hear the way he talks to her now, how he looks at her with so much mistrust. She knows she's a stranger to him now, but to remember everything they've gone through and the time they've put into the team while it's nothing in his eyes is... hard.

She forces it back, smooths out her expression to focus – because emotional reactions are not the point here. ]

My name is Gamora. Before we came here, we were— on a team together.

[ Explaining this feels strange. Though they'd only been a part of the Guardians for a couple of months, it felt like such huge steps had been taken and they'd come far.

In the back of her mind, she remembers a conversation with an anonymous source on the network, mere days before.

"What would you do if the person you were in love with literally forgot you existed?"

It had all been hypothetical then – or so she'd thought. ]

... A team.

[ That same skepticism.

Peter doesn't play well with others. Sure, he can do it, is fully capable of it, but he doesn't like it. ]

You were with the Ravagers?

[ Because that's the only team she could mean. It's the only team he's affiliated with. Maybe in the month that Peter's managed to lose, Yondu has also lost his goddamn mind and let women onto the team. Which means that if she's with them, too, Peter is inclined to trust her even less. ]

[ Gamora doesn't quite scoff – but it's close. ]

Far from it.

[ If you want to talk about "honorless," look no further than Yondu's lot. ]

You left the Ravagers shortly before we met. You took one of Yondu's jobs for yourself, so by the time we met, you had a sizable bounty on your head, courtesy of the Ravagers.

So, no, I was not associated with them.

[ He observes her for a breath or two before sighing. There's not much he can say on this, whether he believes her or not. (He had been considering striking out on his own, and the easiest way to do that was to take the payment for a job and run like a bat out of hell.

So maybe she is telling the truth.)

He scrubs his face, frustration bleeding through every pore. ]

Fine. Whatever. Let's say I believe all of that. That we're teammates. That I'm not with the Ravagers. That I'm just forgetting an entire friggin' month.

Fine.

Then why the hell don't I have my ship? And what the hell happened to my Walkman?

[ ... Well, before addressing the rest, she realizes there's something more she needs to correct first. ]

Peter, it's been more than a month. You and I have been here, in this city, for about four weeks now.

We had spent two months together with the others, after you left the Ravagers.

[ ... What. ]

—What.

[ What. ]

Three months. You're— you're saying I'm missing three months.

Yes. Three months.

[ The gravity in her tone leaves no room for levity, no lies or bent truths. ]

A lot has happened.

[ Okay. What the fuck.

He sits down on the couch, because apparently standing might be asking too much, and he covers his face with his hands. ]

This is un-fuckingreal.

[ Gamora keeps her distance, even though she finds that her first instinct is to draw close, to set a hand on his shoulder.

She purposefully refrains. ]

I am— sorry, to have to tell you like this.

[ To have to tell him at all. The apology doesn't come easily, if only because this isn't her fault, she's certain of that, but she can see how difficult this is (and she doesn't blame him in the slightest). ]

Do you need a moment?

[ He has no idea how he's supposed to process this.

Three months, she says. Three months just— gone. And how the hell does that even happen? Did he just— leave the front door open and those three months ran off? If he just waits, will they come back of their own accord? Does he have to slap up some "Lost Memories" posters and offer a reward?

What the hell is he supposed to do?

And part of him still doesn't believe it. Maybe those recordings had been faked – though he has no idea why anyone would go to the trouble. Maybe she's playing an elaborate prank on him. Maybe this is a weird fucking dream, and any second now, he's going to wake up on his bunk in the Milano, blinking at the overhead and thinking, I should stop eating lovir before bed.

Do you need a moment? she asks, and Peter lets out a disgusted sound. ]

What I need is my stuff.

[ Gamora's lips press in a thin line, and she realizes her answer won't be terribly helpful. ]

What you have there is all of it.

[ Aside from the aero-rig, perhaps, but they hadn't come through with the Milano, and— certainly not with the Walkman. ]

We weren't dragged into this place with time to pack.

( closed ) domesticity isn't so bad.

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