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

[ Years of maintaining that same flat, unaffected expression allow Gamora to keep the disappointment out of her face. It feels strange to be... guarded around him again, like he's almost as much a stranger to her as she is to him. ]

It seems foolish to expect any immediate change.

[ Which is perhaps more an admonishment for herself, at this point.

She hadn't done much, but she'd at least poked around her communicator while he was gone (half-hoping to see a notification from him), and she'd seen a few others asking questions. ]

But it doesn't appear to be an isolated incident.

[ That's— somehow heartening to her, if only because it means more people will be searching for a solution. ]

[ He offers a hum of acknowledgment. He'd seen the posts, skimmed the confused responses. But it's not like there's just— a magical cure for forgetting. It's not like someone is just going to find some miracle cure they can make into a smoothie to fix everyone's memory problems.

He studies her for a long moment, as close to an impassive mask on his face as he can manage. It's not quite as well put-together as Gamora's, because frustration and uncertainty still stand out in his eyes, but in any other instance, it might be passable. ]

Listen.

[ Slowly, reluctantly. He cuts himself off, gaze flitting off to one side before he forces himself to watch her again. ]

Listen. I'm gonna ask you something. And I want you to tell me the truth. Okay?

[ Gamora isn't exactly uneasy, but she's not sure where Peter's going with this. ]

... All right.

[ She doesn't think it could hurt, at this point. She doesn't know what he might ask that would pose a problem or prove to be detrimental – and if it's about filling in whatever blanks he may have left behind, that could only help, right? ]

Go ahead.

[ He studies her for a breath or two longer, a mix of wariness and curiosity, and soon enough, he decides there's nothing for it but to rip off the bandage. ]

Just... Who the hell are you?

[ That— seems like a multilayered question. Who is she? To him? In general? Here in this place or back in their world?

Gamora is quiet as she considers her answer, trying to find the right words – or at least ones that will be good enough. Before her conversation on the network, she might not have thought to give him a more well-rounded reply, might have wanted to conceal certain things (to protect herself, more than anything), but now, she remembers her own words.

It would feel dishonest. ]

I am your teammate and your friend. And—

[ She pauses, her lips pressing in a tight line as she tries to parse this for herself. ]

Your... Diane.

[ Will that even make sense? ]

[ Teammate and friend. That he had gathered on his own, based on the quick exchanges on his comm, based on the way they needled each other on the network.

But she pause, steeling herself for something, and when she continues on—

It takes him a second.

He only knows so many Dianes. A handful of actresses. That lady from 60 Minutes. But the one that immediately comes to mind is Cheers, and—

He hates that that could still mean anything. ]

So we're— together? Not together? Something in between? [ It's a lot harder to ask those questions than he thought it'd be, and it shows in the obvious hesitation in his voice. He thought he had an idea when he was looking through those pictures of them, when he was trying to read between the lines of whatever brief messages they sent back and forth, but now he's not so sure.

Because— if they were together, then why wouldn't she say so right off the bat? If they weren't together, why would she call herself his "Diane"?

It doesn't make any sense. ]

[ And this has absolutely steered itself in the direction that Gamora had hoped it wouldn't – if only because they haven't addressed this even when Peter had all of his memories. ]

Something in between.

[ That's probably the best way to describe it, at this point. ]

A lot has happened, and we have yet to... discuss it.

[ But— she feels like she's acknowledged it at this point, given him some reassurance that whatever this is is mutual between them. The parameters of it are, unfortunately, still murky and undefined.

Except trying to explain it to him now, it almost sounds silly. They shouldn't have let it hang unspoken for so long, and now it's continued to be unspoken, and these fuzzy lines are making it almost impossible for either of them to know where they stand.

She finds herself wishing she had a clearcut answer for him. She wishes she could simply say "yes" or "no," and then know for her own peace of mind. She's been content figuring out their situation in the city itself before tackling their unspoken... whatever, but last night she'd wanted—

—to get out of her own head. To take a blind leap. ]

[ He screws his eyes shut, head falling into his hands. ]

Crap.

[ He had been worried she’d say they were together, if he’s honest. He was worried she’d say they were a thing, that they’d been a thing for a while now. A lot could happen in three months of time, after all, and for all Peter knew, the two of them could have been engaged or worse.

Her answer, though, has the same effect, still makes something cold sink to the bottom of his stomach. Peter doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do steady or long-term anything. The longest relationship he’s had in his adult life is with Yondu, and he hates that asshole’s guts. (The feeling is mutual, of course, so Peter doesn’t feel too badly about it.) But this, sticking it out with someone? Having that person hover around, getting in the way?

How the hell could he have ever thought it would work? ]

You didn’t say anything. [ A small note of accusation in his voice. ] When I was here earlier.

[ ... Ah.

She feels hyperaware of what she lets bleed through in her expression, and something barbed and acrid twists in her chest that she tries to keep smoothed away. Out of sight.

It would feel dishonest, she reminds herself again, playing her own words back. But she also hadn't approached him as a stranger, hadn't pretended not to know him to begin with, and she'd been upfront about all the rest of it, but—

Maybe she should have left this out. ]

Would you have wanted to hear it?

[ Because it doesn't exactly look like he wants to hear it now, either. ]

[ No, he wants to say. God, no.

But he smothers the inclination away, replaces his reflexive answer with a sharp shake of his head. ]

That’s not something you just keep from a guy!

[ He pushes away from the table, getting to his feet and pacing the small kitchen. An outlet for the frantic, panicked energy buzzing through his veins. ]

That’s a thing you should’ve mentioned. I mean, okay, maybe we’re not— [ His voice catches for a second before he forces himself through it. ] —not official, but— hell, what if I’d gone out tonight and ended up back in someone else’s place?

[ Which, if Peter had been in a better mood for it, absolutely might have happened. ]

You would’ve held it over my head, right? You would’ve gotten pissed the hell off, and I’d have no clue why.

[ He’s overreacting. He knows he’s overreacting. But the idea that he might have tied himself to someone, no matter how casually, is worrying. ]

God, if I hadn’t asked, were you ever gonna say?

[ He's so— panicked. So agitated by even the very idea that they might have been a thing already, and that tighteness in her chest feels so much sharper, a twist of... what? Anxiety? Hurt? She can't help but wonder how much of him has changed if this is how he was just before they met. If he's this terrified of something significant and real (like she isn't?), why has he done such a complete 180 that he wanted to suddenly discuss that unspoken thing?

Is this more honest because he doesn't— know her enough to play the right game?

(No, she trusts him. She trusts that he's her friend, that he cares about her, that this matters.

It's just such a jarring experience to hear this out of his mouth instead.)

Gamora's expression doesn't give way, still carefully schooled and even as she watches him pace and panic – but her fingers are curled in a tight fist in her lap. ]

Why would I have held it over your head? It would be unfair for me to have expectations for you based on our— [ She hesitates, but only for a breath. ] —previous relationship.

You don't remember me. I didn't want you to think you had to behave a certain way that you didn't want.

And with everything else that I had to tell you, there wasn't exactly time to explain more before you left.

[ He’s seriously overreacting, and he can feel it. That weird coil of panic stirring in his stomach. Losing three months – or at least, three months that the two of them know about, and the idea of that leaves him staring down at an impossibly long drop that he doesn’t care to examine – is daunting enough, in an academic sense. Three months (at least) of experiences just up and gone, but in the grand scheme of things, that’s just history and facts. Until just a few moments ago, it never occurred to him that he’d be losing more.

Friendships. Relationships.

And who the hell knows what else?

(There’s a song he remembers, something about the reality of life just slapping you in the face.

How did I get here?)

He drags a hand down his face, trying to calm down. ]

So? [ Insistently, as he turns on his heel to face her. ] Were you— gonna say anything? Or were you just gonna wait till I found all those stupid pictures?

[ The pictures. That explains it, she supposes. Peter took so many, just in the weeks that they've been in the city, with the two of them together.

... At least it's proof that she couldn't be lying about them. ]

I would have told you. [ That, she feels convinced of – because it's the right thing to do. ] You didn't give me the chance.

[ He'd stormed off so quickly, and everything else she'd needed to tell him, to at least give him a baseline, had overwhelmed this detail. He'd been angry then about the loss of so much, and this is how he's reacting to the news now?

She doubts it would have gone over well if she'd tried shouting it after him as he left. ]

So it's my fault.

[ Flat and irritated. He really wishes he wasn't so used to folks flipping shit around on him like that. Yondu was a master at it, like some sort of blame-judo-champion. It pissed Peter the hell off.

He pulls a hand through his hair, the movement sharp with frustration, and he heaves out an explosive sigh. ]

Well, what else is there? Do we own a house with a white picket fence? Two-point-five kids and a dog? Do I work a nine to five and own a sensible fucking minivan? What?

[ Frustration prickles at her, that tightness still not easing. She doesn't want to fight with him, doesn't want a repeat of Ego's planet (even if they haven't talked about that), but the aggressive and— derisive way he approaches it is far more hurtful than she expected.

Her hands are still balled into fists in her lap, but she hasn't moved from where she sits at the table. ]

There is no minivan or dog or house. I don't even know what that is supposed to mean.

[ What does a fence have to do with children and a "nine to five"? ]

Why do you need to know so badly if you don't want it?

[ He grits his teeth, staring at her for a long moment.

He doesn't know what the fuck this is. The two of them, whatever they are, whatever it means to him, or at least, whatever it meant to him. He doesn't want it now – that's a fair assessment – but he did, at some point. He knows he did, because he looked... happy in those stupid pictures. Looked stupidly blissed out like he took a hit of something damn good. Looked content and pleased in a way Peter hasn't felt—

... possibly ever. And he doesn't know why.

And the part of him that'll try anything once if it's rewarding enough says, I want that. It's the attachments, it's the anchors, Peter could do without. ]

You ever jump in the middle of folks playing a game? Like, you just pass by, and suddenly you're part of it, but they don't tell you how any of it works? You don't know what you're doing, and they're getting pissed off at you because you're doing it wrong, because you're not playing how you expect them to?

That's what this is. I don't know the fucking rules, so I'm asking you what they are.

[ She— gets that, she does. It's exactly why she wants to tell him about this, but she'd thought she'd already been doing what she could to not expect things from him.

(She didn't send him messages after he'd left, hadn't mentioned the concert again after it became clear that everything was wrong, hadn't tried to treat him like he should be behaving the same way he had before.

Is she doing this wrong?)

She breathes out shortly through her nose, steadying herself so she doesn't snap back. ]

We don't— have rules. I told you, we haven't discussed this.

[ That smooth expression gives way, just enough, and she shakes her head.

She feels lost trying to explain this. ]

So much has happened, Peter. Things changed so quickly for us, and then we were dragged here, and—

Now we have this. [ She gestures at the apartment around them. ] We go to work, and we eat takeout and watch insufferable people on television talk about their trivial lives, and we listen to your music and...

We dance.

[ She stops, frowning as she looks away from him. ]

We do not have rules. We just... are.

[ He sees the moment her mask gives way, and it douses a great deal of his anger.

He knows this is fucked up for her, too. Or he knows it distantly, at least, like recognizing back on Earth that the seasons were flip-flopped in the southern hemisphere. A fact he knows, but he forgets it until it's brought up again.

It's not her fault he's lost all this time, but she's the easiest target. The only one within reach. And that's shitty of him to keep taking it out on her, but he's— having a really shitty day. It's not an excuse in the slightest, but for now, he feels like it's a valid enough reason for his frankly shitty behavior. ]

So where's that leave us now?

[ A little less sharply than before, at least, and his exhaustion bleeds through.

What a day. ]

[ She lets her gaze flicker back to him, taking in just how tired he looks. ]

Wherever you decide. You should not feel obligated to something that you don't want.

[ And he's made that clear enough. ]

Given that you aren't the only one dealing with this, I... assume something can be done to find the cause.

[ He huffs out a breath, something caught between an irritated noise and a sigh. ]

Yeah, sure. It might just be something we all ate.

[ A touch of sarcasm, because that tends to be his fallback defense mechanism.

He watches her for another few seconds, studying her. This new information should've shifted a few things into perspective, should've made him feel a little more comfortable, now that some of the pieces have clicked into place. Instead, he's just— more uncertain. Because even while she's saying she doesn't expect anything from him, that doesn't mean that she won't, despite it all.

It just makes the unsteady ground even more difficult to traverse.

Eventually, he slowly returns to the table, lowering himself into the seat across from her. ]

Even if they figure out what happened, that... doesn't mean it's reversible. You get that, right?

[ It isn't what she wants to hear, because she's been trying to focus on believing that this can be fixed, that somehow, there will be a way to get his memories back. Gamora has been reaching for that optimism (the same optimism that drove her to encourage Peter to give Ego a chance, but, well, look how quickly that deteriorated), but there it is, the cold, hard reality spread out on their little table. ]

... I'm aware.

[ And she's aware of the difference that would make for them. For what they had.

This Peter never brought the Guardians together. This Peter never fought alongside them to save Xandar. This Peter never plucked her out of the vacuum of space. This Peter never held her hand as he shared his mother's music. This Peter never danced with her to Sam Cooke. This Peter never showed her the wonders of Terran food or asked her to the masquerade or stood with her in the gardens under the light of alien flowers.

This Peter never loved her.

(Because she still remembers what Mantis had said on Ego's ship. Vividly.) ]

So what do you want to do?

I dunno.

[ Breathed out, that edge of irritation still sharpening his tone. ]

Look. I'm sorry for flipping my shit at you earlier. [ The apology is a bit of lip service, doesn't sound entirely sincere, but it's the polite thing to do. ]

But this is fucked up. For both of us. [ And he's finally acknowledging it aloud, at least, that he recognizes that he's not the only one screwed over by this. ] I barely know you, and I'm willing to bet good money that you're not too happy with me, so it's— it's weird.

[ It's fucked up, to borrow his own phrasing. ]

I can find someplace else to crash.

[ ... She hates that idea, she realizes immediately.

When was the last time she was living in anything but close proximity to Peter? It's become natural to at least exist in the same space as him, and if he's not there—

Then it's probably easier for him.

Her jaw tics slightly, her fingers still curled in her lap. ]

Fine.

[ She nods towards the bedroom. ]

There are things you can take with you.

[ She's not trying to rush him out the door, and she doesn't want him to go (because maybe being around someone who used to be important might... jog his memory? or maybe she's only being selfish), but considering she's surprised he came back in the first place, maybe she already expected he would go— be somewhere else. ]

[ Oh.

Uh.

Part of him had kind of hoped she'd, like, insist that he still had a place here, but— no, maybe not. Not when he's not the man she probably wants. So that kind of backfired on him, and, you know what? He deserved that.

He'd said it himself, after all: It's fucked up.

And, really, it's probably a better idea for him to put some distance between the two of them. They're strangers without that shared history between them, and if this is permanent, as he thinks it probably is, then why stick around to rub salt in whatever wounds she's carrying? Why stick around, when she's just going to confuse the shit out of him?

He gives a quick nod, rubbing at the back of his neck. ]

Okay. Cool. [ He forces confidence into his voice. ] Better than starting over from scratch.

[ Gamora is still biting back her initial ache to tell him to stay – but she also assumes that the reason he suggested it was because he doesn't want to be in the apartment to begin with. It's not like it holds sentimental value to him now, something just as foreign as wherever he may find instead, but at least wherever else he may go won't have the addition of this, of her, of that big, terrifying thing that so clearly sends him into a panic.

... All the same, that sharpness in her chest hates the idea of waking to that empty bed all over again.

It looks like she'll have to get used to it. ]

There are many vacancies in this building or I'm sure there's temporary accommodations you could find.

[ Or he could charm his way into wherever he liked, she's sure. ]

You have a job with the Perimeter Guard you may wish to continue.

[ She's forcing that evenness back into place, trying to recover from that slip in her composure – though she can't seem to will the tension out of her shoulders or to release the white-knuckled grip of her fists in her lap. ]

( closed ) domesticity isn't so bad.

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