( closed ) domesticity isn't so bad.

[godslay]

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. ]

Comments

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The glass of water goes ignored for now, and Peter lets go of the blankets in favor of rubbing at his temples with both hands, now.

Slowly, because the words are rising out of a fog, ]

When we bitched about— about that asshole. We— [ It's like a word he can't quite remember, knowing it starts with a "p," but the other letters won't fall into place. It's like having the snippet of a song, a few notes of a melody, but nothing else.

Maybe he's going crazy. Maybe his fever is melting his brain. But he swears— ]

You said he was intolerable.

[ And childish. And those words had stuck with him, while everything else is sluggishly moving into place. ]

[godslay]

[ There's a moment where Gamora is just stunned into silence.

All of that had been before he'd woken without his memories. All of that was from here, their time spent together, and not from whatever section of his life he'd remembered where she and the Guardians weren't a factor. ]

That was a week ago.

[ Her voice is careful, testing. ]

What else do you remember?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ That’s a big question, and it’s not like he can answer it without direction. His head pounds, and he grimaces with it, gritting his teeth as he tries to gather his thoughts. But it’s like herding cats, and he hardly knows what he’s looking for, and also there’s a tornado and the floor is lava.

(This is fine.)

But a part of him knows this is— probably important. That there’s a weight in Gamora’s voice that wasn’t there before, and they’re teetering on the edge of something. This is important. ]

Narrow it down.

[ Bitten out. ]

Ask me something.

[godslay]

[ Ask him what, she has to wonder. There are so many things, so much she could bring up, but— ]

What are the names of our teammates?

[ Because Gamora has yet to give him names (hasn't had much of a chance to catch him up at all, really), and remembering the Guardians... that's something. That would be more – beyond just the Quarantine and what he may or may not have seen in the city. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

Rocket. Drax. Groot. Mantis. Kraglin.

[ And the answer is as close to automatic, as easy as breathing. It takes a second for him to jolt to attention, and he jerks his head up to stare at Gamora, eyes wide and mouth dropping open.

Breathless and startled, ]

Oh, shit.

[godslay]

[ Something like open shock is there on her face, and she just stares right on back at him.

Then: ]

Where did you and I meet?

[nostalgiabomb]

Xandar?

[ This, with a little less certainty, and he scowls down at the table for a second before giving a decisive nod. ]

Xandar. You tried to steal from me.

[godslay]

[ Gamora tries not to look... as relieved as she feels, but the fact that he remembers it, uncertain as it may be, is so much more significant. ]

What about our time here? Do you remember what we saw in the gardens?

[ Bits, pieces, because she wonders the scope of his memories, if they're all slowly crawling back or if it's still dependent on some sort of timeframe. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He chews on his lip, rubbing at his temples. It's a few seconds before he slowly answers, ]

Those... glowing trees?

[ A question, because things haven't quite settled yet, like everything is still trying to find its proper place. That particular memory is still indistinct, still blurred. ]

Lots of weird flowers.

[godslay]

[ But it's more, it's something, and after this last week, a little of that weight of grief starts to ease off.

She nods, reassuring. ]

Yes.

[ She keeps watching him, taking in the way he's trying so hard to get it. ]

The tea must be working.

[ Right? It was supposed to fix this, and it's the only change that's been made since all of those memories just... vanished from his mind.. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He breathes out a tired laugh, relieved, and lets his forehead fall back against the surface of the table. ]

Yeah. Sounds like you won't have to behead that guy, after all.

[godslay]

It wouldn't be fair now.

[ Even if it did make him incredibly sick.

She goes back to where she'd left the bottle of painkillers before, bringing it to the table to set next to Peter's water. ]

So it... should all return? Your memories?

[ She asks it tentatively, uncertain, because she isn't sure what he was told specifically about the tea. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The rattle of the pills in the bottle makes him turn his head, and he finally rouses himself again, sitting up to grasp the bottle and shake out a couple of the pills. ]

Guess so.

[ He sounds just as uncertain as Gamora does, if only because he hadn't expected it to work in the first place. ]

Some bullshit about some pollen blocking folks' memories. Then some other bullshit about some red leaf counteracting it, and blah, blah, blah, drink this stupid tea, you might experience some flu-like symptoms, happy trails.

[ He chases the pills down with the entire glass of water, then lets the glass and his head drop back to the table. ]

Maybe no murder. But I still feel like that jerk deserves to get roughed up a little.

i didn't get this notif wtf......

[godslay]

[ Pollen? Well, that's an odd enough explanation, but with everything else this place seems to have in store for its wayward residents, maybe that's not the strangest. ]

Then maybe I'll leave that to you.

[ Her tone is dry, less careful than before, but she's— actually hopeful now. With the bits that are returning to him, she's almost willing to assume that it all might, that there will be significant improvement, that things can go back to normal.

Or... more normal. That ache in her chest is still prominent, still more than she expected to feel.

She reaches to take the glass from him, intending to get up and fill it all over again. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He hears the shift of movement, and when he lolls his head over to one side to see what Gamora's doing, he huffs out a laugh. ]

You don't have to keep doing that, you know.

[ Hours ago, he had said it warily, cautiously. Now, there's a muted sort of warmth there, fond and a little amused. ]

You don't have to keep watering me like I'm a dying houseplant.

[godslay]

[ She hears that change in tone, as closely as she's paying attention, and it's relieving, along with the rest of this. It doesn't make her feel quite like he's treating her like an untrustworthy stranger.

It's familiar.

She shrugs from where she stands at the sink, refilling the glass to bring it over to him again. ]

If it looked less like you'd pass out trying to get it for yourself, I might not keep doing it.

[ But it's also something small she can offer him, a way to help. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He lets out a quiet huff, a token affronted noise, but beyond that, he offers little more in the way of protest. He takes the glass with a murmured word of thanks, drinking down a good fourth of it before setting it back on the table. ]

Do I really look that bad?

[ vanity, thy name is peter quill. ]

[godslay]

You don't look like you're dying.

[ Which probably isn't that comforting of an answer, but there's at least the implication that he could look worse.

He could also look much better. ]

Did you still want your dinner?

[ Because she'd abandoned it in the microwave in favor of asking about what he remembered, so she probably at least bring it to him, if he's hungry. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ That, at least, gets something closer to a laugh, even if it's still just a quick huff of air through his nose. He should probably take offense to her observation, but considering she's probably just telling it like it is, he lets it pass.

He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, looking uncertain for a second, then, ]

I should probably eat something.

[ Now that his stomach has settled, anyway. And considering he hasn't had anything to eat since early this afternoon, he figures there's no time like the present. ]

[godslay]

[ She nods – both in agreement and understanding – before going to get his food from the microwave. It's acceptably warm still, and she brings the box and a fork to set in front of him.

Food, water, painkillers – since she assumes that's all she can bring him, she settles into the chair again across the table. ]

The nausea has passed?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ At her question, Peter pauses, his hand resting on the box's lid. He seems to really think on her question. ]

... I think I'm okay.

[ But he sounds certain of it, at least. God knows neither of them want him to just puke his meal back up after this, and Peter's pretty sure he's well enough, nausea-wise.

Everything else-wise, who the hell knows?

He opens the takeout box, and he pauses when he sees what's in it – the familiarity tugs at him, and while not all of his memories have settled just yet (they all seem to be buzzing in his head, wandering around to find their proper places), he at least remembers enough to know he likes this dish.

In fact, now that he's thinking on it, he's pretty sure he's liked everything Gamora brought back for him over the course of the week, and guilt rises like bile up his throat.

(Maybe that nausea hasn't passed.)

He swallows it down, though, and glances up at her. He's sincere, at least, when he offers his quiet, ]

... Thank you.