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

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( 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. ]

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[ The idea of food makes him pull a face, and he grunts out a disinterested sound. ]

Fridge.

[ Is the more verbal answer. And after a second, he tacks on as an afterthought, ]

Please.

[ He's rusty when it comes to using his manners, okay?

He pulls the glass away from his forehead to drink from it, finishing off the water in a few greedy gulps. He scrubs at his face, taking a deep breath. ]

I'll get out of here in a sec. [ Because after a day of work and getting covered in monster good, he imagines she wants a shower. ] Just— lemme catch my breath.

Take your time.

[ She shrugs, stepping towards the door. ]

I'd rather you puke in here than in the rest of the apartment, Quill.

[ At least the toilet is in easy range.

But she doesn't mind letting him have the bathroom for now, and she finally leaves him to his own devices to go take care of the food. She sets Peter's in the refrigerator, and after a moment of thought, does the same for her own. She's not especially hungry, she realizes. ]

[ He nearly laughs at that comment, but all he really manages is a tiny, bitter huff.

Once she leaves, he sits there for a moment, willing his stomach to settle. Fuck, it's warm in here, Jesus Christ, he feels like shit. A part of him wonders if maybe it wouldn't be a better idea to lie down on the cool tile of the bathroom. But— no. That's just going to put him in the way, and that level of vulnerability is seriously sad, and he's a fucking Ravager, goddammit, he's better than this.

He hauls himself to his feet, swaying only momentarily, before he catches himself in the doorway of the bathroom. He hangs there for a second before he stumbles into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa.

A vague wave of his hand, not bothering to lift his head to look over at Gamora. ]

All yours.

[ Gamora glances up at the sound of Peter stumbling his way to the couch, worry momentarily creasing her brow. He's not doing well, but she's uncertain how to offer support that won't leave him snapping and bristling and brushing her off. So, rather than ask him what she can do, she fills another glass of water (because she can fetch the one from the bathroom later), and brings it over to set next to the couch on the coffee table. ]

Drink this.

[ Which is definitely more order than request, but it's a harmless enough demand. ]

[ His gaze flits up to her as she approaches with another glass of water, and though his eyes narrow a touch at the command, he takes up the glass. He drinks down a couple of mouthfuls before scrubbing at his eyes. ]

Is it hot in here?

[ It's a line Peter's uttered before, and usually followed up with a shit-eating grin and a bright, "Or is it just me?"

This time, though, he asks it tiredly, breathlessly, pressing the glass against his cheek. ]

[ Gamora watches him from beside the coffee table, that concern not quite bleeding through into her eyes, as much as it continues to grow. ]

I think you have a fever.

[ He looks so flushed and overheated, and she's surprised by how much she wants to... help, to do something. This is clearly more than a hangover.

Instead of simply standing there, she heads back into the bathroom. She rummages around, eventually producing an average bottle of fever reducer that she assumes will be safe for Terrans (and half-Celestials, but she hasn't felt the need to mention that to Peter; an unnecessary addition to the chaos of losing his memory). Considering it came with the apartment, along with a few other basic medical supplies, she's willing to take a chance that it isn't poison.

Whatever "acetometophin" actually is.

She brings it back to Peter, holding it out to him. ]

Take these.

[ You know, he thinks, that'd make a lot of sense.

He lets out another breath once Gamora steps away, ostensibly to take her shower or whatever it was she did after her shifts, but when she returns with the bottle, he frowns a little.

But he takes the bottle, nevertheless, giving the bottle a quick glance. He uncaps it, shaking out a couple of pills, and washes them down with the water. ]

Fucking snake oil salesman.

[ Grumbled out, as he slumps in his seat, the glass of water mostly empty in his hands. ]

"You might feel a little dizzy. You might feel a little under the weather."

Goddamn lying asshole.

[ Well, at least he takes the bottle. She'd almost anticipated more of an argument, but she supposes that speaks to how terrible he feels.

She leans her hip against the arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest as she looks down at him. ]

What are you muttering about?

[ She hadn't run into anyone peddling the tea, so she has little to draw on other than the empty cup on the kitchen table. ]

[ He gives a loose gesture with a hand. ]

Some fucking prick.

[ ... which explains very little. Peter hadn't even planned on saying this much about it, really, considering he had his doubts on whether the miracle tea would work or not. It didn't seem likely, and there was no point in getting both of their hopes up. His plan had been to drink the tea, wait it out, and if it worked, it worked. If it didn't, well, his suspicions would have been confirmed, and he could go on with his life, being cynical and jaded.

(And he's really not being very fair to the volunteer. They were very nice about it all, if he's honest, but they were also a lying sack of shit.) ]

Someone guy was handing out this stupid tea outside of work. Said it'd fix everything. Said there might be side effects, too, but, "hey, no big deal."

[ And he says that last bit in a mocking voice. He makes a disgusted sort of sound and presses his drinking glass against his forehead again. ]

Douchebag.

[ Gamora goes still as Peter speaks, now catching up with the rest of this ordeal. Well, she's not sure if it's better or worse that it's from something he ingested instead of some sort of sickness or otherwise, but the reason why he drank it, what it was for...

Her fingers tighten around her arm as she watches him with that carefully controlled expression. ]

But it didn't fix your memories.

[ ... Obviously.

Maybe people would keep trying, if it became clear their cure didn't work? Maybe there would be other options?

(Or maybe there really is no fixing it.) ]

Edited (WORD REPETITION my nemesis) 2017-08-28 03:18 (UTC)

[ ... Oh, crap.

He realizes he's said way more than he intended to out the outset, and he cringes, muttering out a dismayed, ]

Shit.

[ He heaves out a sigh before downing the rest of the water, setting the glass aside. ]

I didn't mean to say all that. [ He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. ]

I don't know. Maybe it takes time. Or maybe it was really just some bullshit tea and some dickmunch is going around poisoning folks. I don't know.

Just— don't hold your breath. I know I'm not.

[ says the gullible asshole who knew it wouldn't work and drank the tea anyway. ]

[ There's a short tic in her jaw, a twist in her chest, but Gamora is nothing if not accustomed to keeping her emotions off of her own face. Even if she's— disappointed.

(Is that the right word for it? It feels so much heavier than that.) ]

Trying something is better than nothing.

[ She forces herself to shrug, attempting to be dismissive – or to at least bury that sinking feeling a little deeper. ]

At least rest to sleep this off. If something changes... [ She trails off, then shakes her head sharply. ]

Just rest.

[ ... That kind of sucks, he thinks, glaring up at her for a second. The way she dismisses it, the way she doesn't seem to care. And if he's honest, it pisses him off, because— ]

I drank that shit because of you, you know.

[ Sharply, angrily. And maybe Peter wants a little more credit for even giving enough of a shit to give this stupid tea a chance – because God knows he wasn't going to take it for himself. And, okay, Peter's pissed and he's lashing out, but he feels like shit, and the volunteer with their stupid tea-canister backpack is long gone.

Which leaves Gamora. Again.

He didn't need those three or more months back, as far as he was concerned. And if it were just him? He would've probably dumped the tea down the sink.

But Peter's sick of that weirdness lying between them, of that air of disappointment that drifted from Gamora like an oily smoke. And that girl. The bug girl. Whatever the fuck her name was – Cricket or something. He hated how she tiptoed around him, like she thought something might set him off. And he hated the way she looked at him, like she was seeing someone else entirely. ]

I've been just fine the way I am, but hell, you've been, like, some kind of ice queen to me all week.

[ Maybe it's the disappointment that's still curling in her gut, cold and bitter, but Peter's words don't slide so easily off of her this time. ]

And how am I supposed to act?

[ The words are snapped, sharper than that levelness she'd been reaching for. ]

Do you expect me to treat you like nothing has changed?

[ Because everything is different, but Gamora doesn't know how to balance missing Peter and having him just a stone's throw away from her while it all means nothing. She isn't purposefully casting the tea aside like the gesture itself was meaningless, but under that grasp for composure, she doesn't know how to process just how distressing she finds the news that nothing changed, that they're both still stuck in this strange limbo of Peter without his memories and Gamora with far too many. ]

I don't know, okay?

[ Half-shouted, and he scrubs at his face. ]

I don't know.

But what I do know is that I'm finding it really hard to believe we were ever friends, much less— whatever it is you thought we were before all this.

I mean, every time I try to talk to you, you shut me out. You shut me down. Is that how it was before? Were you always just cutting me out like that? 'Cause if that's the case, maybe I really don't want those stupid memories back.

[ That stings. It hurts more than Gamora expects it to, and she's suddenly vividly aware of how reminiscent this is of Ego's planet, how they'd been swept into something so heated and emotional and—

It had hurt then, too.

Gamora's eyes narrow, and her defensive posture doesn't ease; if anything, she's bristling even more. ]

Because it's so appealing to exchange a few insincere words before you find the most convenient moment to disappear for the entire night.

If you don't want to be here, why should I offer you something that is meaningless to you?

[ And she feels like she's tried, too. She's still been picking up dinner for the two of them every night, still been leaving Peter little notes, but she doesn't know what to do, what's the right move now. She's lost, just like Peter, but letting herself be so openly vulnerable is— too much. She has to wall herself off, because she doesn't know what to do with this grief. ]

Edited (look i changed my mind on phrasing my b) 2017-08-28 05:03 (UTC)

[ He flounders for a second, taken aback, before he snaps back defensively, ]

I wasn't being insincere.

[ Not really. He was just— making small talk, trying to find some safe topic, turning up the charm to smooth things over. It's just how he operated, it's how he worked, and he doubts the Peter she remembered was any different. ]

And the only reason I'm having second thoughts about staying here is because you've had a "fuck off" stamped on your forehead practically since day one. How the hell am I supposed to get to know you when you don't give me a goddamn chance? You barely talk to me!

[ And that's the thing of it, really. Folks are always saying "actions speak louder for words," but Peter, whether he realizes it or not, doesn't subscribe to that idea at all. Words have value, even when half of what Peter says is absolute bullshit. He needs to hear shit aloud, needs that verbal acknowledgment.

Which means he doesn't recognize Gamora's little gestures as attempts at reaching out. They're just— things she's been doing, the meaning of which he hasn't quite understood. ]

The way I see it, one of us has been trying his best to make the most of an awkward situation, and one of us has been shutting him down every chance she gets.

This is me, Gamora. This is Peter Quill. Whoever the hell you think you knew before? Well, I may not him, but he sure as hell is me.

[ Those words strike an all-too familiar chord with Gamora.

("This is not Cheers after all!")

And that old wound feels fresh again, that insinuation that she wants to push him away, but— she's protecting herself.

("This is whatever the show is where one person is willing to open themselves up to new possibilities—

—and the other person is a jerk, who doesn't trust anybody!")

But she does trust him, she trusts him more than she thought herself capable of, and once again, she finds herself so frustrated by— what? Her inability to communicate that? The fact that he can't see it? It's different now, though, without their history, without the small steps Peter has been there to witness her taking, the small offerings of vulnerability and intimacy that she's extended to him.

Another frustrated noise catches in her throat, and she steps back from the couch, gesturing out at the apartment. ]

What do you want from me?

[ Because she's doing what she can, doing what she knows, and she has no clue how to give him what he's apparently missing when she has no idea what that is. ]

I don't know!

[ And that shouted line is probably more honest than he's been all week. ]

I keep thinking maybe if I stick around, I'll get it. I keep thinking if I just hang tight, maybe it'll make sense – whatever thing you and I used to have. Why the two of us might've been friends. Why I would've bothered making friends at all.

[ Because Peter has been pretty sure he doesn't need anyone – not on a persona level like this. He's used to leaning on people's skills, to tapping into someone's strengths when he needed to, but he rarely kept anything going beyond that. Maybe he'd stay on friendly terms with some folks – a "with benefits" sort of thing – but none of it would extend to whatever friendship he must have once had with Gamora.

But apparently at some point, he felt it was worth the trouble, or worth the effort, but right now? He can't see why. ]

But how the hell am I supposed to do that when you don't ever say anything?

[ At least that— feels honest.

She knew Peter was likely just as lost as she is, just as off-kilter, if not moreso, but hearing him admit it, hearing him sound more genuine than he's been this past week?

It helps.

(But not much.)

Her lips purse, still prickling with agitation, but she doesn't snap quite as loudly this time. ]

I don't do small talk. I don't want idle chatter while you are trying to leave as quickly as possible.

[ She shakes her head sharply. ]

If you want to know me, then know me.

[ Something beyond his charming rambling, the way he'll try to smooth over a situation with that Star-Lord grin and his natural charisma. She didn't become his friend in the first place because he kept her at arms' length; it's always been a give-and-take with them, but with how much this hurts, with how she's trying not to put expectations on his shoulders, Gamora finds herself struggling to give. ]

Oh, sure.

[ Dismissively, angrily, and he throws up both hands. ]

Like this is all my fault. Like me tryin’ to test the waters is why you’ve been freezing me out since the start.

What am I supposed to do, pour my damned guts out on the off-chance you might give me the time of day? How the hell am I supposed to know how to talk to you when you barely even try? God, I might as well be talking to a brick wall, most of the time!

Are you forgetting the part where you're never here?

[ That heat flares again in her voice, hurt hedged with anger because anger is far easier than admitting that she's— lonely. That she misses him. That she hates that distance, as much as she ends up perpetuating it herself.

But— she would spend time with him, if she felt like that was what he wanted. There are things they could do, places they could go, sights she could show him in the city. They've missed the music and celebrations by this point (something that honestly disappoints her), but they probably wouldn't have to look far to find something to do... together. ]

Oh, you’re right. [ His voice drips with sarcasm, and anger jolts through him, brings him to his feet. ] Sorry, you’re absolutely right. It’s been such a pleasure being here. Why would I ever leave? I mean, it’s not like whenever I do try to strike up a conversation with you, you give me the cold shoulder.

[ He feigns a pause, then with an overblown sense of discovery. ]

Hang on, wait, no. Sorry, I’m thinking of some silly fantasy world where this actually worked out. My mistake – ‘cause it’s exactly like the way I just said.

[ He grunts out a noise, frustrated and disgusted, and he pulls a hand through his hair, leaves the sweat damp curls at his forehead sticking up at odd angles. They’re arguing in circles, and he knows it. Neither of them seems to know what they really want out of each other – but maybe that’s just on Peter’s end? – and it’s driving him insane. At least with the Ravagers, at least with Yondu, Peter knew those assholes didn’t want him there, but they kept him around because his skills were useful, because he was damn good at what he did.

There’s no reason for Gamora to keep him around, yet she’s allowed him to, nevertheless. ]

I get it. You don’t want me here. Hell, you can barely tolerate me. But why the hell do you let me stay here when you obviously want me out?

What the hell do you want from me?

[ She gives a short, aggravated noise, stepping away from the couch, pacing towards the kitchen. Spinning back on her heel, she focuses that intensity in her eyes back on Peter.

The words come quick and heated before Gamora can stop them, and— ]

I want you.

[ ... It's the honest answer, the thought that she's beaten down all week. She wants her friend back. She wants the man that she trusts, she wants the Peter Quill with his stupid, sweet smiles and cheesy lines and— sincerity. She knows Star-Lord, knows the charming rogue through and through, but he isn't the one who makes her melt. She isn't soft because she's flattered by his attention, far from drawn in by convivial nattering that she knows keeps her at arms' length.

She also, however, realizes almost immediately how unfair that is. ]

[ —oh.

He wasn't expecting that answer, and he flinches back – from the heat of the words, from the immediacy of them, from that sharp stab of guilt that pierces his gut.

Because it's clear enough what she means. She doesn't mean him. She means whatever sorry bastard she remembers, whatever sad sack of shit it was that let himself grow roots. (He's better off on his own, he'd always thought. He doesn't need anyone.

What the hell happened?)

Except flinching back makes his heel catch on the couch, and unsteady as he already is, it makes him fall onto his ass – thankfully he lands on the couch rather than onto the floor, but a combination of everything is enough to douse the worst of his anger. ]

—Shit.

[ Hissed out when the room sways for a moment, and once he regains his bearings, he— finds he can't immediately find anything to say.

He scrubs at his eyes again with the heels of his hands, taking a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is flat, resigned. ]

So what happens if it's all just— [ He gestures vaguely toward his head. ] —gone?

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when u hit post comment too soon

the tru struggle

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