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. ]

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[ 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)

[ He nods slowly. Sleep is probably a good idea, though with the agitated knot still coiling in his stomach, he wonders how much sleep he’ll actually be able to get. (Or maybe that’s the nausea?

But then again, maybe it’s both.)

He finishes off the water before carefully getting to his feet. He pauses as he moves toward the bedroom, lips parting to speak, but— what the hell is there to say, really?

(He could apologize. He could try to explain himself. He could say literally anything to help try to smooth over the jagged edges of the week.)

Instead, he lets out a breath, handing the glass back. ]

... Thanks.

[ Stilted, awkward. It’s the least he can offer in return. And with that stellar example of good manners, he trudges into the bedroom. ]

[ Gamora doesn't step forward to offer a hand, instead watching him intently as he pulls himself up (just in case), but he seems to be steady enough (at least so that he won't fall right over). Accepting the glass, she offers a nod of acknowledgment – appreciation of the gratitude, if nothing else – before letting him wander off to get some sleep.

She leaves the glass in the sink, and after briefly getting herself something to change into, she finally retreats to the bathroom to shower and clean up.

(She also notices the smear of monster sludge by the front door, and she's definitely going to need to take care of that.)

Shower, clean, eat dinner.

She can do that.

Their argument still sits in the pit of her stomach, the weight of the week hanging over her, but— she feels a little better about this odd tension between them. She expects she'll be careful around him (as she always is with strangers), but talking to each other, doing something together... she thinks that will help. It will put them outside of their own cycle of avoidance and uncertainty, and she can show him the city, maybe the gardens, too.

It'll be... better, she thinks.

Not fixed, but better. ]

[ So here’s what Peter was expecting would happen, once he took the tea:

He’d gulp it down, and once it took effect, he’d have, like, this weird moment where everything would come crashing in, like his head would be flooded with the months of experiences he might have lost. Like whatever weird red leaf they found would take a keg of dynamite to whatever had dammed up the memories, and everything would rush. Overwhelming, sure, but at least he’d remember.

Then Gamora would come back to the apartment, and Peter would be able to tell her that he finally remembered, and things would— well, he guess they’d go back to normal, whatever “normal” meant for the two of them. Things would calm down, and the tension permeating the apartment would finally fade.

Here’s what actually happens:

Peter crashes for a little over three hours – four hours and some change after taking the tea – and wakes feeling like death warmed over. He’s pretty sure his head’s been filled with stones, and he’s pretty sure someone lined his mouth and throat with sand paper, and has the temperature in their apartment always been turned down to “blizzard at the North Pole”? He should probably drink some water, or at least down a few more painkillers for his headache, and maybe he should get something in him, now that his nausea has died down.

And here’s what happens when he misjudges the size of his bed as he rolls over to stand:

Peter crashes. To the floor. In a mess of blankets. With loud curses and oaths and invectives, not all of them in English.

Sorry, downstairs neighbor. ]

[ By the time Peter is awake again, Gamora has settled in for the night, staying mostly out in the other room with a bad rerun of Pals on the tv, though she's barely paying attention. She'd considered going back to the training facilities or for a run, but she's opted to skip both, in case Peter took a turn for the worse. However, she'd needed something, and so she'd opted for... this. It had seemed like a decent enough idea at the time – but how absurd that she finds this insipid show to be almost comforting to her.

(Maybe it's because she associates it now with those nights spent in front of the television next to Peter, that quiet and oddly domestic atmosphere settling over them without fear of the universe ending or saving the galaxy.)

She's almost drifting off, stretched out across the couch cushions with her arm folded under her head, her breathing slowing, her eyes starting to close—

—and then there's a sudden shouting from the other room and a loud crashing noise, and Gamora is on her feet in an instant.

She's quick to dart to the bedroom, her curls a mess, but her eyes are bright and alert, casting around quickly for the source of the disruption as she hits the light switch.

But, there's Peter, tangled in his blankets, cursing loudly. ]

—Peter?

[ She moves forward quickly, kneeling on the bedroom floor.

... She also realizes she's not sure if he's hurt or just a mess. ]

[ Little of column A, little of column B. Peter’s always been a jack of all trades – so, you know. Hurt and a mess.

Over-Achiever–Lord ]

Ow.

[ Somehow he drags the word out to three syllables, rubbing at his nose after having smacked it against the floor. And suddenly there’s a green blob beside him, and he jerks away in surprise. ]

—Shit.

[ He hisses that out, both because of how much that had stung, but also because he realizes how stupid he must look. But Peter’s resilient, and he’s suffered worse things. The blow to his pride when he realizes Gamora’s just charged into the room, though? That’ll be a little more difficult to recover from. ]

‘M fine.

[ for a given value of fine. Of course, he’s currently on the floor, a shivering, sweating mess tangled in blankets, but, you know. He’s okay. Mostly. He’s not dead, even if he feels like he’s getting there. (Or maybe he’s being dramatic.)

He manages to push enough of his blankets away to sit up, slumping against his bed, and he scrubs at his face. ]

Totally meant to do that.

[ Gamora watches him with that fierce determination in her eye, tracking every little movement as she takes in his appearance. ]

You look terrible.

[ She can't tell if it's worse or not as she appraises him. Considering he's moving around, he seems all right, uninjured (enough), but she can see him shivering and sweating and—

It's far from reassuring. ]

What happened?

Funny coincidence. [ Croaked out. His hands drop away, and he starts gathering the blankets he had pushed off around his shoulders. ] 'Cause I feel terrible.

[ He shouldn't have tried that tea, he thinks for the umpteenth time. He really, really shouldn't have. As for her question— ]

Wanted to see how high the bed was.

[ A pause, then, ]

Pretty high. If you're wonderin'.

I don't think most people wonder that.

[ It's a bland response, but she's still watching him, taking stock of how he looks, how he sounds. ]

What will help?

[ Because Gamora doesn't know very much about (half-)Terran biology. She doesn't know how to do anything about this, but she knows that she wants too – though her tone is somewhat more brusque, focused, instead of pitying or overly sympathetic. ]

[ He breathes out a laugh. ]

Said already. Water. Rest. Decapitation.

[ And oddly, in a move that either speaks to the fact that he's still not quite awake, or that this mystery sickness has made him weird, but he reaches out, his hand resting against her knee. ]

'M expectin' to see that head by mornin', Gamora.

[ She would have shaken her head at him, disapproving (but somehow helpless, too), but that hand on her knee makes her go still. It's the most contact they've had in the last week, and she's not sure what to make of it.

... He must just be feeling somewhat delirious, she finally decides.

Her instinct is to set her own hand over Peter's, but she refrains – while also allowing his hand to stay put. ]

I will be sure to set it on the nightstand for you to see, Quill.

[ At least the sarcasm has returned to her tone, less of that fierce vigilance and wariness. ]

[ The corner of his mouth twitches up in a halfhearted smile. Really, it ought to be worrying that the two of them are so casually discussing murdering some well-meaning volunteer – especially since either of them are capable of doing it – but the idea of an actual head on his actual nightstand is at least a little funny.

Right?

Well. Drax would think it's funny. Rocket, too, but only if the hapless bastard woke up wondering where his head ran off to in the middle of the night.

Peter gives her knee a fond little pat before tucking his arm back under the blankets. ]

You're the best. Have I mentioned that lately?

[ Gamora blinks at him, confusion settling in with her uncertainty. First, the contact, now... those very familiar words. ]

... No. You haven't.

[ There's nothing cold when she speaks, because it's mostly just a statement of fact. He hasn't said that in at least a week (which, by their standards, is a while). He hasn't had reason to, after all, considering he hasn't known her all this time, and as she hasn't been the most approachable or friendliest of roommates while he's been without his memory, so she doubts he would go ahead and say, "You're the best."

Like... he just did. ]

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