citylogs | [closed] and i'll tell you all about it

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[closed] and i'll tell you all about it

WHO: Gamora (

justlethal) & Peter (

nostalgiabomb)
WHAT: Meeting
WHERE: Near grocery store, District 1, north-west
WHEN: A few days after their arrivals
WARNINGS: Will update as required. Maybe some yelling.

[She does perhaps make a sight, for a number of reasons. The first is that her skin is green, even if she is humanoid in appearance. The bone structure of her face is slightly different mind, although it's not overly noticeable, but enough to draw a second look anyway. Her face is framed by strands of hair that are ombred, starting one colour and fading to another. Her expression is... less than impressed, although with Gamora, that tends to be a typical state of being. She's ignored the others around her, set off on her own, seeking answers.

Gamora does not like surprises. It doesn't matter whether it is a pleasant surprise or a not so pleasant one. She likes to be prepared, at least to some level of preparedness. Here? She's on edge. It is like someone prepared a city and then started dropping individuals in. For a brief moment, Gamora had thought it had had something to do with what had transpired just before her own arrival, but it makes no sense. Then again, little of this place does. She has been exploring, trying to find answers. They are severely lacking. She knows that she has just covered a small amount of the city, starting north and heading west, but so far, everything seems like it has been explained.

Trying to leave has proven to be true. You cannot. Not that Gamora is sure what she is trying to achieve by this. Go where? It's a day of walking, making marks and crossing parts off on the map that she has found. It's not until her stomach truly starts to grumble that Gamora calls it a day. Backtracking to one of the grocery stores that fall along her route, she tallies what she does know as she walks on silent feet. It's pitiful, although every little piece of information can help to build a bigger picture.

The sun is starting to drop by the time she approaches down the street of the store. She'll grab whatever and return to the hole she has found to rest, before another day of rinse and repeat. It's passing looks to anyone that she passes, although that leave me alone air remains. Her eyes pass over him once, not quite registering, before her head snaps back, even as she halts in place. She blinks, once, twice, as if expecting it to be some trick, before her voice breaks.]

... Peter?

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[ So here's the sad thing:

This is not, in fact, Peter's first time waking up somewhere really frickin' weird, without any knowledge of how he ended up there. It's not his first time getting dropped in the proverbial deep end with the expectation he'll learn to swim. And it's not even his first time being kidnapped, sadly enough.

(See, this is why he was taking a break. His life is so weird, and god, he needs therapy. Stat.)

But he's a survivor, at his core, and while a portion of his brain has dedicated itself to the strange calculus of figuring out this mystery and making his way home, he still acknowledges that, first and foremost, he has to not die. Which is made simple by the amenities on hand – the free food, the lodging, even the mild forms of entertainment. Even if there isn't really anywhere to grab movies or find music or anything of the sort.

(Which sucks.)

He's making do, though. It's only been a handful of days, so for now, he's just finding his way around, getting acquainted with the areas that they're free to access before he starts messing with the areas the areas they aren't. He doesn't want to go into the inaccessible areas until he has a weapon, at least. He could probably snatch a bowling ball and use that as a bludgeon, but then he'd have to carry around said bowling ball, and that sounds annoying.

For now, he's planning on stocking up, just grabbing essentials from the closest grocer – something he was starting to get used to doing for his grandfather, a month after Peter had returned to Missouri. It'd almost feel routine if it weren't for the eerie stillness and quiet of the streets. Peter's never been much of a cook, but he can get away with basics. Also instant noodles. Also sugary cereals and milk. (Part of a balanced breakfast!)

He's frowning to himself, mostly, gaze unfocused as he thinks. (And those thoughts, of course, mostly consist of, Grandpa is gonna be so pissed I got abducted. Again.) But his attention is caught when he hears his name.

It takes a split-second for his ears to catch up with his brain when he realizes he recognizes the voice.

His head jerks up, and he looks around, frantic. He thinks he's imagining things.

Then his gaze falls on her, and he stares. When he manages to find his voice, it's a fun cocktail of relief and uncertainty and confusion. ]

Gamora. Holy shit. Hey.

[ Strangely, his tone is closer to what someone might use after running into a familiar acquaintance at a work conference full of strangers. And he's careful to keep it at that – friendly, professional, without the tons and tons of baggage to give weight to his voice.

They're not too far apart – maybe half a block? – and he quickly moves to close the distance. He looks different than Gamora likely remembers. He's let his beard grow in more, and his hair is a little longer. His signature leather jacket is swapped for a softer maroon bomber. ]

Your hair's different.

[ In that, you know, it looks washed now. He keeps that observation to himself. ]

[Although Gamora knows it hasn't, she would swear that time slowed between saying his name and watching his head rise towards her. She certainly forgets to breath in those few seconds, the world slipping away around her. In that moment, someone could have actually had the possibility of getting the jump on her.

The memories are so clear, those last few moments with him. It's not how she had expected things to transpire but Thanos had played them the fool. I love you, more than anything. Not words that the assassin would have ever thought would have come from her lips, but truer words had never been spoken.

But... With how their last meeting had been, with everything, his nonchalant seeming response stings a little, makes her pause the few steps that she has taken. That... that isn't Peter. She had known what she had been asking when she had made him promise, knowing how well he handled loss, but also knew that she would have rather died by his hand than to help Thanos.

She hadn't even been able to do it herself, and had still unwillingly helped him.

There's a hint of frustration, forehead furrowing as her lips tighten. She doesn't understand as her eyes bore into him. Uncertainty flashes. Is... is that some quote from some tv show, some movie? If it is, she doesn't get the reference, doesn't get his reaction, doesn't notice the things that should be noticeable. There's a small flick of her hands upwards in irritation. She knows that there are things that he does not handle well, never has, but... But in her wildest dreams, in that small hope she had clung into when Thanos had held her, this had never crossed her mind as what her reunion with him would be like.]

... I do not understand. Is this some Cheers thing? Some song lyric? Something your magical vehicle said?

[ Peter's always had a bad habit of wearing his emotions on his sleeve. He definitely expected the intensity of her gaze – intensity and Gamora seemed to go hand in hand, no matter the universe – and the frustration, too, seems par for the course, but—

—yeah, okay. This conversation has already taken a really, seriously hard left, and his confusion is plain on his face. ]

I— what? No. It's not a reference—

[ And his mouth tends to work faster than his brain, sometimes, which is why it takes him a split second to finally register what Gamora just said. ]

How do you know what Cheers is?

[Then she really doesn't understand. Her hair is her hair. Perhaps a little ruffled from her day exploring, trying time and time again to walk out of the city perimeter, only to fail. It's as it always it. Dark, fading lighter, it's not like she does anything special with it.]

You've spoken about it enough.

[Which, alright, perhaps she hadn't paid proper attention in the beginning with all his Terran things. Between the music and the movies and the sayings and the television shows, it had all been useless information that she had had no desire to retain. Their little spat on Ego, she hadn't known, and he had been arguing with himself because he may as well have been speaking a different language to her with the nonsensical points he had been making.]

A lot, Peter.

[ His mouth opens to speak again – some token denial. He and Gamora didn't have a lot of time to have a proper conversation – mostly because of how blinded he was by his own grief. Mostly because they were busy saving Rocket. And mostly because he was reasonably sure that she spent most of the time on the Bowie wanting absolutely nothing to do with him. He remembers nearly every word exchanged between them, the bile and acid and resentment, and he's reasonably sure there wasn't a lot of time for a casual chat about Cheers, of all things.

And then he abruptly closes it.

And— ah, here we go. The staring.

He rocks back a step, taking in the details. From a distance, he had noticed the obvious stuff, first – that it was Gamora. That her hair had that wide, bouncy curl at the ends – like how it had been when they first met. Both times they had first met, even.

But the way she's looking at him is— familiar. Achingly so. Exasperation and annoyance and barely contained impatience. The kind of look that says, "I could stab you, you know. I could stab you a dozen times before you could scream. But I won't, because I'm actually pretty nice. And I like you a little bit."

He hasn't seen that look in fucking years.

Something lurches in him – ice cold and fever hot, all at once – and he blinks. This time when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely there: ]

Gamora?

[Is he annoyed at her? Angry with her? Because she did not go the right direction like he had told her to? He can be an ass hole, but he's not someone that's casually cruel. There's that rise and fall of her chest, features still darkened as she gives him a glare. Eyes hard and narrowed, and yet hurt.

And yet the silence gives her a moment, her own confusion shifting along her face. Clothing aside, as perhaps he had found something to catch his fancy when he arrived here, there are subtle differences. His hair looks a little different. Longer? Not quite as shaven as he usually is. Her head cocks a little, scanning, looking, and he seems...]

It's- it's not the Easter hare!

[It's lashed out, but not directly aimed at him, but more the entire situation. Nebula- does that mean? It's uncertainty then. She had said it's been eight years. What has just happened for her, has it been eight years for him too? Eight years without- It's then that she doesn't actually know where she stands. Time can change much. Look at what a few years have done for her? No longer a weapon of Thanos, she has sought to find her place in the galaxy. Found companions, that had turned into friends, that had evolved into family, and more. She can hear her blood ringing through her ears, that clenching around her heart.

Later, perhaps, she might think on the casual greeting, and how he had spoken her name.

Now? Now that is that hesitant step toward him, a twitch of her fingers, a desire to rest her palm against his chest. She holds off, even as she draws closer, until her eyes are silently exploring across his face, as if she might be able to read the stories there that she isn't privy to.]

[ The way she snaps at him makes him flinch a little – the memory of being flung into an array of display panels still sits fresh in his mind, even if he's a month past that. Mantis had helped him fish the shards out of his hair.

He can't help it – he's tense as she approaches, and his expression is still that exciting cocktail of confusion and wariness and a brittle, disbelieving hope. Neither can he help the way he rocks back as she approaches, even as he bears the way she studies him just as closely as he's studying her. ]

Just— hold on.

[ It's another croak, and his mind is racing, screeching. There are about a million questions zinging around in there, admittedly, chief among them are How? and Why? and What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?

Apparently, the abduction he can handle. It's seeing ghosts that he can't.

Mostly to himself, ]

What the fuck is happeningright now?

[She notices. How can't she notice? Peter has always been an open book in many ways, expressing himself, even in annoying ways. Spots as he goes rigid with her approach. She stops, body language shifting. Hurt, agitation, walls coming up as her fist clenches as her side.

There's that frustrated noise that growls up from her, although she hasn't moved and makes no hostile intention. Her eyes shift, staring back out over the foreign city that they're in, only keeping him in her peripheral vision.

It's not... She hates it. Hates it all. Hates Thanos and his chair and his training and hates how she had been the reason he had gotten the Soul Stone. Hates that she had not been able to stab herself and hates... hates herself. If she would have been a better liar, a better fighter, stronger...]

How the hell am I supposed to know! I woke up on a train here, just like everyone else.

[And she shouldn't. There's that small shiver, as she can still feel his hand on her, her struggles useless as the ledge got closer. Can still feel that first giddy sense of weightlessness before the cold snap of wind against her skin and realization setting in as gravity called her downward.]

[ She snaps again, and this time, at least, he recognizes it as defensiveness, rather than a precursor to picking him up and chucking him through the closest storefront.

He takes a deep, fortifying breath to calm himself.

When he speaks again, it's very clear that he's making a concerted effort to maintain a level tone – his "I'm facing down the business end of a gun that could go off at any second" voice. ]

What's the last thing you remember, before the train?

[What's the last thing you remember? The question shuts her down, shoulders slumping and her face does turn away. There had been things that Gamora had kept from Peter. She'd made him promise to kill her without truly explaining the full reasons why. Arguably Thanos may have been able to find the Stone without her, but would he have been able to gain it? Would any of her siblings fit the purpose, the need, the requirement?

A tension in her jaw as she clenches her teeth, as if saying it might somehow summon the Titan. It's foolish, she knows. What else could he do to her? Nebula had told her of his demise, although not before he had gotten his goal. Will they even know? Had they already found out? Her hands are still clasped tight. She can feel blunted nails and rings digging into her flesh, yet doesn't stop.]

You're from after, aren't you?

[It's not an answer exactly, but it is answer enough.]

[ It's not an answer, not at all – but it still feels like a fatal blow. ]

Fuck.

[ The curse sounds like it's been punched out of him.

It's like reopening half-healed wounds, but he does so readily. Happily, even. And he can't help that his immediate reaction is to step toward her, to reach out a hand.

And it feels like only moments have passed since Knowhere, when he stood breathing in fire-heated air and ash, feeling that crushing weight of failure. He's spent so much of his time over the intervening years returning to that memory, prodding at the guilt over and over and over so he could drown himself in it. And it's effortless to do it again, in the here and now. ]

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried—

[Is it the eight years too, she almost asks, but isn't entirely certain she wants the answer. She doesn't understand the original response to her appearance either, she realizes, but does she want to ask? People can change in eight years. Grieve. Grow. Carry on.

Her emotions rage. She'd felt like a child again before Thanos. Small, struggling, unable to do anything. Nebula at least... She'd hated to see her sister suffer, had begged for Thanos to stop, but he had known her weakness- and her secret. He'd twisted it like everything else and she had been unable to bear it. Without her knowledge, Thanos may have been slowed, maybe even stopped, from his quest to gather all the Stones.

Her gaze is elsewhere, Knowhere, unfocused on the here and now.]

... it wasn't you that failed, Peter. It was I.

[ He lets his hand drop to his side, gaze darting way. ]

It was never your fault.

[ There's a certainty to that answer, at least. He spent a long, long time vacillating wildly between blaming himself and foisting it off onto nutsack-chinned giant prune.

If he had let himself be swayed by Thor into going to Nidavellir. If he had acted faster on Knowhere. If he hadn't spent hours and hours suffocating under the weight of his failure. If he hadn't completely lost his shit on Titan—

Peter falls silent for a few seconds, unsure of what to say. (He spent a short month trying to move on from his grief, and a small part of him marvels at how easily that development has slid away. The rest of him happily waves it goodbye.)

When he exhales this time, it's a trembling, unsettled sound. Part of him wants to keep tripping over himself to beg her forgiveness – his guilt has been a dark, writing thing that's had years and years to evolve and mature – but he doesn't. Maybe he doesn't want to be forgiven. And, oh, he really should've taken up his step-grandmother's offer to get him set up with a therapist.

He licks his lips before trying, ]

How long have you been here?

Don't you understand? Without me, his search for the Soul Stone- [There's that pained tone to her voice even as she tosses her hands into the air. His search would have been short. Without her, the location would have been held secret, at least for a time longer. It may have given others enough time to track Thanos down and stop him. Might have ceased his actions all together if he hadn't been able to get them all.

She can't regret it and doesn't regret it, telling him what she knew. If it meant her sister would be safe, then how could she? It was a small thing that she had been able to do for Nebula, but hopefully enough.

Instead she gave it all to him. The location. The very Stone that he had been after. For one brief moment, Gamora had thought they had been safe. A sacrifice of the one being they love most to the cliff. How could Thanos love anything? Clearly his journey would end right there, but it hadn't. It hadn't. There's that subtle agitation that brews. And for that, the universe had suffered.

But her hands settle back at her side, shoulders slumping in defeat again.]

A few days. [That low voice, tired and drained. She's been on since her arrive. Almost electric, with all those myriad of emotions that played inside, that she keeps reined in behind a mask. Or tries to. What's done is done, right? Time moves forward, like it always does.] It's only been happening for about a month I've been told. I've been confirming what Hob had told me.

[ He flinches again at her tone, at the thick waves of frustration and hurt rolling off of her.

For once, he's at a loss for words.

He's quiet again, just looking at her, and he's kicking himself for not seeing the details – and the guilt practically throttles him when he notices how she retreats behind a mask. He licks his lips, gaze skittering away to examine the buildings around them, but he nods when she offers that piece of information. It's important, he figures, pooling what few resources they have, and information has always been an important currency. ]

I haven't found out much. [ Instinctively, he's starting to fall back on that professional tone – and even a month out of practice, he still manages to ease back into his Captain voice with little trouble. ] This place just looks like it was up and abandoned.

[ A pause, then, ]

Who's Hob?

[ Because despite his greatest efforts, Peter has always had a slightly jealous personality. ]

[There is a look that is tossed his way, a familiar one when Gamora has to deal with Peter and with certain aspects of his personality.]

Hob. Short for Robert. [Don't ask. Gamora did and it still makes no sense to her.] Terran. From Lawn-dawn.

[Memorizing London hadn't been on the top of her list when speaking to him. It's clear he hadn't had much experience with species from other planets, or at least green ones. Her own answers to Hob's questions had been curt, although part of it was she hadn't wanted to explain more. Explain where she was originally from and what had happened to her planet. She'd gone a vague answer, speaking of space and living aboard a ship for the most part. It's not false, although she does- she did have a home planet.

But he had answered hers patiently regardless, which did bring him up a notch in her books. He seemed a level-headed sort, but Gamora supposes that only time would really show if he was. Still has the bottle of water that he gave her, but she has been storing items, just in case.]

They all arrived a month ago. The place looked like it does now.

[ Lawn-dawn?

He spares a couple of seconds to parse that, blinking in the silence, then, ]

Oh. London.

[ —which, okay, isn't the most important piece of information to come away with, there, which is why he shakes himself, clearing his throat. But, yeah, okay, that's good to know – that whatever it is that's happening is still in its nascent stages. And historically, when things are first starting out, that's the best time for everything to go wrong; so maybe that'll make it easier to figure out how to get home.

It's a slim silver lining, anyway.

He lets out a breath, nodding, as he shifts his old backpack from one side to another. He has a tendency to fidget a little when he's thinking. ]

Were you— headed somewhere, just now?

[A way out. A way home. It seems a logical reaction, and one Gamora can understand, and yet, what is there for her? She searches, because she wants answers, but when she gets them, she doesn't know. She'd share the information, whatever she did manage to get, for what is was worth. She isn't the type to hold it in or lord it over others.

Maybe it's just something to do, something to keep her mind off of that, because it is easy to get weighed down beneath it all. The nights have been the worst yet she is no stranger to lack of sleep. When she is left to her own thoughts that replay certain memories over and over and over, on repeat, like a bad movie. She knows the words, the ending, and there's nothing she can do to change it.

She makes a little motion toward the building near them.]

I was going to grab something.

[ He follows her gesture to the store, and he nods. ]

Yeah. Me too.

[ It's stupid, how he feels so fucking wrong-footed right now. He really thought, for a long while there, that if he ever saw Gamora again, they could pick everything back up again, right where they left off. He knows, now, that his expectations hadn't been fair to the Gamora that currently lives back home, that it was like taking years and years of history and superimposing it on someone's twin sister, in a weird way.

Back home, the Gamora he fell in love with and who had impossibly fallen in love with him was dead.

Yet here she is. Barely looking at him.

God, what a fucking mess.

He takes a breath, tries to lighten his voice a little. ]

I could keep you company. If you wanted.

[There's no denying that when she first saw him, she'd wanted to embrace him in, drink him in, forget for one moment what happened on Knowhere and everything thereafter. It shouldn't be surprising that when she first arrived, she thought this was after- whatever happens then. That, or something that the Soul Stone did to her. She has no experience with it and doubts there are any records for it.

Her eyes shift over to him then when he speaks, when he offers. Perhaps she is thinking too much, but it's not like Gamora has experience with any of this. Ah, yes, you will die and you will meet your boyfriend in the future after. In some ways it is more uncomfortable than their original meeting. Punching and hitting are things Gamora knows. This? She doesn't know where she stands with him.]

... what is it that you wanted, Peter?

[ You, is his immediate answer.

You, you, fucking you.

But that's just a touch desperate, isn't it? Even for him.

He takes another rallying breath. ]

I was headed the same way. So we can—

[ "Catch up." Like this is something mundane. Like they're old friends running into each other on the street. Like her last memory probably wasn't whatever had happened on Vormir.

He winces at himself, the expression there and gone in a second. ]

Just— come inside with me. If you want.

[Ah.

Whatever answer Gamora may have wanted, her face is schooled into that level mask with that answer. Whatever nightmares the future holds, are dreams compared to what's behind me. Her words from so long ago swirl around in her mind, and this is some nightmare, the likes of which Gamora would never have guessed after.]

Since we're headed the same way.

[She echoes back, but she's already moving, a purposeful stride to her pace as she does. In and out, she decides. A few fruits, some bread. Not that she really has an appetite anymore. Perhaps she'll use them for target practice. Knifes from the restaurant are all she currently has, missing both Godslayer and the blade that Thanos had given her as a child. It seems she is missing many familiar things.]

[ She practically storms in ahead of him, and he brings up both hands to scrub his face.

This. This is going so, so badly.

And why shouldn't it? It's not exactly as though there's a playbook for this situation. "How to Deal with Mourning the Death of Your Girlfriend for Years, Trying to Get Past It, and Finding Her Alive and Well: A Primer."

But the longer her waits, the worse it'll get, so he follows in after her.

It's a modest little grocery store – not one of the gigantic ones he's seen recently, that sprawl across the place and incongruously sell patio sets and barbecues and giant pool floats. He had planned on picking up ingredients for the pasta his step-grandmother showed him how to make. He still probably will.

They walk in silence for a few seconds that feel like an eternity, and he clears his throat quietly. ]

I'm— sorry. For earlier.

[ Recently-earlier, he means. Not years-ago earlier, though he could very easily slip back into that topic. ]

I thought you were someone else.

[ ... which must sound ridiculous, now that he's said it aloud. ]

Just— a lot of stuff happened. After.

[ And he doesn't feel the need to expound further on what "after" means, even if it's pulling a lot of weight. ]

[It's to the right that she veers when entering into the building, seeming to know already where she wants to go. She doesn't understand it, but she's stopped questioning the food, It hasn't killed her yet, or rather re-killed her, and it's not like there are better options. Everything is the same. It's eerie and puts her hackles up. The forested areas are still and quiet, a silence that usually means danger.

She is aware of him there, trailing along although she picks through several varieties of fruit, choosing from them, before moving on to another section. It's not even when he clears his throat that she looks at him. No, that doesn't come until he says he thought she was someone else that she spins, pointing a finger.]

Of course. The dirty haired Zehobereian.

[Because that sounds so utterly ridiculous that Gamora doesn't even like to give voice to it.]

It's fine. I get it. It's been, what- eight years for you?

[A guess tossed out there, as she has no idea when he comes from.]

[ He jerks back when she whirls around on him – an old instinct whenever someone makes some kind of sudden movement. He's always been at least a little jumpy, and that's especially true of now, when he feels like he's teetering over an edge over some unfathomable height. ]

I wasn't lying. I mistook you for someone else.

[ He hears the accusation in her voice – and, yeah, okay, Gamora is well within her rights to assume he's coming up with some stupid bullshit. But he doesn't like being blamed for something, anything, especially when he knows he's not entirely in the wrong, which is why he's instantly on the defensive. ]

Eight years chronologically. I guess. Three years in practice.

[ Because, you know. He was snapped out of existence for five of those years. ]

What the hell are you accusing me of, here?

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that feeling when u forget to hit "post comment"

at least you noticed. I was like lala did dw not give me a notif? nope, it was me. im the problem...

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