ɢ ᴀ ᴍ ᴏ ʀ ᴀ. (
godslay) wrote in
riverviewlogs2017-08-09 02:17 am
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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. ]
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. ]
no subject
... 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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(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?
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[ 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?
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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?
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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.
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I’m not gonna—
[ —collapse again, says this dumb asshole, as he starts to collapse again. ]
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You were saying, Quill?
[ It's definitely flat, disapproving as she steadies him. ]
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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. ]
no subject
This tea is seriously affecting you. Maybe we should have you seen by someone actually prepared for this.
[ IE whatever medical staff is available. ]
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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?
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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. ]
no subject
[ “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.
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... "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
But that’s dumb, because he recognizes that moving from one room to the other will kind of necessitate the two of them, like. Separating. Which sucks, because he can’t shake this weird feeling that he hasn’t been in a room with Gamora in forever.
He steels himself, though, gaze flicking to the doorway. ]
Kitchen, then?
[ Which is his low-key way of asking her for help, because he may or may not fall flat on his face if he tries to get there under his own power. ]
no subject
... It must be the fever.
But, instead of turning him down, she gives a short nod, dropping her hand from his face to turn and adjust the way she keeps an arm secured around his waist.
It's meant to be steadying, helpful, but not so pointed that she'd practically carry him herself. She doesn't want him to feel too much like she's compensating for his own strength (mostly because she'd rather him allow her to help than protect his ego too carefully). ]
Kitchen.
[ An agreement, before she takes a step to help lead him out of the bedroom. ]
no subject
He drops himself into seat at the small table (the one they rarely use for its intended purpose, instead curling up on the couch to poke fun at whatever junk is on TV), and he folds himself over, pressing his forehead against the table’s cool surface. He keeps himself wrapped in his blankets, a miserable little cocoon of sadness at the dining table. Peter can’t remember the last time he’s felt this sick, aside from relatively frequent hangovers when he happened to be drinking with the others, and he decides it’s an experience he could’ve done without repeating.
The TV still hums away, the volume soft (probably in deference to him sleeping in the next room, though with everything going on with him, he doesn’t quite realize it). Still, the character’s voice is shrieky and loud enough that Peter hears the familiar line, “We were on a break!” and he scoffs. ]
Why is that guy literally the worst.
no subject
... Have you been watching this?
[ She realizes he might have watched it while she was at work, but considering he'd been out of the apartment during any free time he had (from what she had noticed), she'd doubted that he'd bothered much with the television – and especially not the ridiculous shows they'd followed together. ]
no subject
... Well, yeah. [ In a tone of voice that says “duh.” He’s pretty sure they’d been watching it together.
... Right? It sounds right. But if that’s right, why would she ask?
Peter frowns disentangling a hand from his cocoon to scrub at his face. ]
Kinda hard to forget a prick like that guy.
no subject
So instead, she settles on, ]
I didn't realize you'd had the time for it.
[ But she goes to take out a bowl, transferring his dinner into it so she can heat it in the microwave. ]
no subject
I had just as much time as you did.
[ Considering she was there almost every time he was.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut against his headache. It's like— a weird shift. The stones in his head feel unsettled, sending down little showers of dust and grit, something like tectonic plates, grinding together.
There's something big he's missing. Maybe. Maybe? Or maybe it's the fever.
... It's probably the fever. ]
no subject
(Even if part of her is almost... bothered by the idea that he might have been watching the show without her. Not that she should be or that it's reasonable, which is what surprises her all the more.
It's not like he would remember why it matters.) ]
It seems like it would be harder to watch it in a bar.
no subject
[ No, okay, they're getting some wires crossed, here, and Peter slowly lifts up his head, peering at her with bleary eyes. ]
What are you talking about?
no subject
Any time I've passed you when you're returning in the morning, you smell like alcohol. Have you not been staying out drinking?
[ Because that had certainly seemed like what he was getting up to. ]
no subject
[ His brow furrows as he tries to think – which is surprisingly difficult, all things considered. He winces, massaging his temple with the knuckle of his forefinger. There's a weird pressure building behind his eyes, and he sort of hates it. ]
I mean— I didn't watch it a bar. [ His face scrunches up, and he looks back up at her. ] Wasn't I watching it with you?
no subject
[ Not this entire week, at least.
But she also doesn't know how he'd remember watching it with her, since that had all been... before.
Hesitating, Gamora fills a glass with water, bringing it over the table to set it in front of him. ]
When did we watch it together?
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i didn't get this notif wtf......
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