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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[ 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?

[ Still prickling, still tense, but the second Peter loses his balance, she takes a quick step forward, preparing to catch him— but he lands directly onto the couch instead.

Well, that's... better.

Some of that anger starts to fizzle out as she watches him, and the absence of rage when he speaks eases more of her own – though it still sits underneath it all, sharp and acrid, tinged with her own coil of guilt. ]

... I don't know.

[ And it sounds... not quite defeated, not quite resigned, but almost lost. She has no solutions, no fix-its, especially since the tea hadn't worked. ]

But I hate this— distance.

[ She just isn't certain how to bridge it – which isn't entirely his fault. ]

[ Peter heaves out a sigh at that. He’s not sure why he figured Gamora might have an answer, when it’s become all too clear neither of them know what they’re doing.

He keeps his face covered for a few seconds, trying to puzzle out his own feelings on the matter. It’s been uniquely— lonely, despite spending his company with others in the evening. Despite coming back to Gamora in their shared apartment. It’s weird, how apart from it all he felt, how distinctly separate, like some out of body experience where he was on the outside looking in. ]

I fucking hate this.

[ He mumbles it into his hands – but he wholeheartedly agrees with her, at least.

One hand dropping away, Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to force away the headache blooming behind his eyes. ]

I don’t— I don’t know how to talk to you. [ Which is baffling and frustrating in and of itself, because Peter can talk to anyone. It’s one of his better skills. ]

[ She doesn't come close, not quite, but she steps away from the kitchen, away from the door, tentatively approaching the couch.

Somehow— it helps, hearing that she's not the only one who hates the daunting canyon that's dug itself between them. She's not alone in feeling lonely and lost, though her sense of loss is undoubtedly different from Peter's. But they're both stuck, trapped in this cycle of unfamiliarity and an unwillingness to give an inch – or to at least meet in the middle.

She's protecting herself, but if it isolates Peter more, is it worth it?

... But, then again, he hasn't exactly given her any good reasons not to drop her walls.

Except this. ]

Don't talk to me like a mark or someone you meet at a bar.

[ Stiff, but quieter, almost tired. ]

And do something with me, go somewhere in this city.

[ Because Gamora is so much a doer with little motivation to fill silence with chatter.

And it's an offer, too – a gesture, perhaps small, of trying not to keep her own distance. ]

[ He exhales sharply, lifting his head to snap back defensively, ]

I haven’t been—

[ —no, no, he absolutely has been, and he knows it. If he’s honest, it’s really the only way he knows how to talk to anyone, the only way he’s comfortable with, aside from trading insults with the Ravagers. It’s why he cuts himself off and doesn’t bother finishing the lie.

He drops his head, for a second, letting it hang between his shoulders – not shame, but a touch of resignation. At length, he lifts his head again, studying her with a touch of wariness. ]

Like... a date.

[ And he says it levelly, keeping the wariness in his eyes out of his voice. He’s not opposed – he’s taken girls out plenty of times before, but that was typically because he wanted or expected or needed something out of it. Access to her accounts or her home or her office, for instance. Proximity with her computers to upload viruses. Shit like that.

But as Gamora just said, she’s not a mark. She’s— potentially a friend. Maybe. He’s still not convinced, but at this point, he’d rather have anything but this weird, tense thing drawn taut between them, a rubber band about to snap in their faces. ]

Like people spending time together.

[ A correction, if only because she and Peter haven't... had a real date yet – at least not one that they've called a "date."

She's still standing at a distance, watching him closely, carefully, but without the same tension in her shoulders, less poised like she's ready to defend herself at a moment's notice (or at least, less obviously so). ]

[ He appreciates the correction, though he tries not to let it show. His lips press together into a line as he continues to watch her, and he notices the way she seems less combative, less likely to lash out. The change in her demeanor probably has a lot to do with the change in his own, and it’s— probably better this way. They’re both wary of one another, sure, but it’s better than snapping at each other like caged animals.

He swallows around the nervous knot in his throat, nodding slowly. ]

... I can do that.

[ Probably, anyway. ]

[ She's still quietly evaluating him, but she takes another couple of steps closer. ]

We can do that when you're up for it.

[ When he's not miserable and feverish.

Which, speaking of: ]

How are you feeling?

[ He breathes out a bitter laugh, letting his head fall into his hands.

Grumbled out, ]

I feel like I need to go track down that fucking turdblossom and shove a teacup so far up his ass they can read leaves in his mouth.

[ Which is to say, probably not amazing. ]

If you could stand long enough to do that.

[ Though she's not actively mocking him. ]

What do you need?

[ She tries to make it seem less like hovering, less like coddling, because she honestly wants to help without being overbearing. ]

[ He grunts out a noise – she's not wrong, he has to admit, though he won't say as much aloud – and lapses back into silence to feel sorry for himself, at least for a moment or two.

He doesn't lift his head at her question; if there were more worry in her voice, he might bristle defensively, but it sounds like an innocuous enough question. ]

Sleep, probably. Water. And the head of the guy who poisoned me on a silver platter.

I will see what I can do about the third one.

[ But the second, at least, she can easily handle, and she steps over to pick up his glass. She heads to the kitchen to refill it in the sink, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Quietly, she brings the water back, offering it to him. ]

[ The corner of his mouth twitches up at that, and he finally lifts his head when she steps away to refill the glass. When she brings it back, he frowns up at her, taking it almost cautiously. ]

You don’t have to keep doing that.

[ He says it with a jerk of his chin toward the kitchen.

In fact, it’s weird that she does. This is, what, the third time? The Ravagers made a point of steering clear of him whenever he was sick – some weird belief that Terrans were hotbeds for disease – and he’s gotten used to looking after himself. ]

I’m good.

It's not exactly demanding.

[ Fetching water? Easy. She would consider it on par with bringing home dinner every night – simple, automatic, but... a gesture, nonetheless.

And he's also not contagious, if it was poison, so there's no need to keep her distance.

She gives a short shrug, gesturing back to the bedroom. ]

You should get some rest in an actual bed, instead of staying out here. Sleep the last of this off.

Edited (gdit word repetition like. two hours later. MY B A D ) 2017-08-30 18:00 (UTC)

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when u hit post comment too soon

the tru struggle

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