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

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. ]

[ He lets out a quiet hum, frowning a little. It hasn't occurred to him that anything he's saying or doing is out of the ordinary. It all feels normal – or as normal as it can be, while he's sweating out the effects of the tea and literally dying.

(He's not literally dying.) ]

Well, you are.

[ He wipes at his forehead with the edge of his blanket, peering blearily around their bedroom – for whatever good that'll do, considering how dark it is in here, safe for the dim slanting in through the window and from the doorway. ]

It's freezin' in here, isn't it?

The temperature hasn't changed.

[ But this seems to be a fun, new symptom. ]

It's probably an effect of the tea.

[ Messing with his temperature regulation is apparently a thing now, and that doesn't help reassure her much about how well this is passing – combined with the... odd behavior.

Maybe they should take him to the medical facilities?

Pushing herself up to her feet, she offers Peter her hand. ]

Can you get up?

[ He frowns a little at her hand – not because he bristles at the offer of help, but because he’s heavily considering whether or not to make the floor his new home. He’s not comfortable, exactly, but staying where he is has quite a few benefits – chief among which is not having to move.

Eventually, he heaves out a sigh, gripping her forearm to haul himself up to his feet. He sways a little once he’s standing, but he stays upright, gripping the blankets around his shoulders. (In another moment, he’d compare himself to an old, doddering granny in a shawl. As it is, there’s a weird chill running down his spine that won’t go away, and he’s miserable, and fuck how he looks right now.)

But, hey, he’s standing. Pat on the back for him. ]

How long was I sleeping?

[ Gamora provides an easy anchor, keeping herself steady as she helps pull him up, though she's mindful not to accidentally throw him off-balance all over again. Somewhat reluctantly, she releases him, but she keeps her hand at the ready, prepared to grab him if he actually does wobble right off of his feet. ]

Three hours.

[ And he's been out the entire time, as far as she's aware.

Her eyes narrow a little as she takes in the way he sways, and though he's still standing, she adds, ]

... Don't collapse again.

[ He shoots her an exasperated look, moving to step past her to the living space. His current plan is to gulp down water like a man recently rescued from the desert, then choke down painkillers for his headache, then crawl back to bed to sleep off the rest of whatever bullshit the tea has done to him. ]

I’m not gonna—

[ —collapse again, says this dumb asshole, as he starts to collapse again. ]

[ And, fortunately for him, Gamora is ready to respond in a heartbeat. She closes the space between them, her arms wrapping around his waist to catch him before he hits the floor – though that also means she draws him up against her, putting them a hell of a lot closer than they have been all week. ]

You were saying, Quill?

[ It's definitely flat, disapproving as she steadies him. ]

[ He grips her shoulder, trying to steady himself – though he apparently doesn’t have to bother, considering Gamora has the task of keeping him upright well enough in hand.

Defensively, he grumbles, ]

The floor moved.

[ He doesn’t immediately push himself away, though, because she’s warm against him. Eventually his legs feel steady enough to support him, and he exhales slowly. ]

Think I’m okay now.

[ Which isn’t quite a “you can let go now,” technically. ]

[ Considering he isn't trying to push away from her or insisting she release him, Gamora keeps her arms around him, frowning at how chilled he feels by comparison. She isn't bracing his weight anymore, but with one arm still around his waist, she reaches up to press her warm palm against his cheek – testing, mostly. ]

This tea is seriously affecting you. Maybe we should have you seen by someone actually prepared for this.

[ IE whatever medical staff is available. ]

[ He can’t quite help the way he cants his cheek into her touch, even with the fever making his skin oversensitive – the brush of her hand is almost like sandpaper, but he bears it happily.

At least until she starts talking, and he grimaces. ]

No.

[ And the word is punched out of him, even before Gamora finishes speaking. ]

No hospitals.

[ Because that’s surely what she means. ]

I just need to sleep it off, okay?

[ Still careful, she's ready to remove her hand if necessary, but she's still willing to offer that warmth, as much as his pallor and temperature concerns her. ]

This could just keep getting worse.

[ But considering she's not physically hauling him off to the medical facilities herself, she's at least willing to listen to his protests.

... Unless he spontaneously loses consciousness, in which case, she won't have any qualms about taking the decision out of his hands. ]

Or. This is as bad as it’ll get and, sending me off to a hospital will just piss off everyone involved.

[ “The glass is half full, but also the glass is filled with vinegar” is basically Peter’s general attitude in a nutshell. ]

I just need some food and water in me. That’s all. We don’t have to end up some place so a guy can slap a bottle of aspirin in my hand, tell me to take two and to call ‘im in the morning.

[ Gamora doesn't look convinced, but, if this really is the worst of it, then there wouldn't be any point having him treated.

... "Wait and see" may have to be enough for now. ]

Fine. We don't have "aspirin," but there's more of the other one.

And your dinner is still in the fridge.

[ Food? Water? Painkillers? That she can do. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject