nostalgiabomb | open post, vol. 2

[ She's been listening her whole life. Because she didn't know what would happen to her if she didn't. And it felt like... for once, maybe she didn't have to listen. Rocket called it "letting loose." But-- this isn't right. There must be a way to do that, a way that doesn't end with Peter raising his voice at her in an alleyway on Knowhere. What should she do? ]

I'm sorry. [ Her lips pull into a frown. She knows apologies are the first order, at least. But it's better if she says what she's sorry for, right? ] I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you.

What can I do to make you not angry with me?

[ For a few seconds, Peter just stares at her, lips pressed into a tight line and eyebrows drawn together. There's something too weirdly— flat about the way she says those words, like it's instinct, and weird, directionless flicker of anger licks the back of his sternum.

(A common occurrence, these days, ever since—

Everything. All of that. The stuff Peter's trying not to think about.)

His shoulders sag as he heaves out a sigh, and after a second of deliberation, he lowers himself down to sit beside Mantis.

With a patience he doesn't quite feel but that he can apparently fake, ]

Are you actually sorry, or are you just saying you're sorry to get me off your back?

Like, do you actually get why I'm pissed right now?

[ There's a certain distance that exists between them that

is because she's wearing a rather large hat on her head--

but also because she doesn't really understand how to be around other people yet. For all of her life she was in the company of one person, if he could even be called such, and everyone else... came and went. For various reasons. Mostly just the one reason.

At his questions, her arm moves and her hand lifts almost automatically as though to reach for him-- but she stills it once her mind catches up to her body and she remembers that it's not good for her to just use her empathy on people without asking. So, instead she extends her hand a little bit toward Peter and tilts her head at him in an unspoken question.

Empathy would allow her to feel that he's angry-- but it won't explain to her why he's angry. Still, it's one of the only ways she knows to communicate. ]

[ Peter glances down at her outstretched hand for a second, almost puzzled, before it clicks.

Right.

The empathy thing.

He winces a little, the slightest twitch of his cheek, because the last time they did this, Mantis totally blurted out that thing he'd been trying to keep under wraps for weeks and weeks until he could get it handled. Admittedly, that hadn't been going well, but he was trying, which is the important thing.

But— well, there's no one else around but the two of them, so if she delves in and dredges up something he doesn't want her to, at least it'll just be between Peter and Mantis. (For however long that lasts.) And Mantis is still learning how the team thing works, and this is the most direct route, so—

So he lets out a slow breath, steeling himself despite the decision, and reaches out to meet her the rest of the way. ]

Alright. [ Like he's giving himself a pep talk. ] Okay. Here we go.

[ And he presses the palm of his hand against hers.

The first thing she'll feel is that anger, of course. Impatience and frustration and annoyance, rolling and flaring up in his chest. There's that bone-deep exhaustion, too, a hollowness that's stuck with him since— everything, deep and dark and cold. But beneath that— the fading dregs of worry and panic, both of which are slowly tempered by relief. Prickly and icy, a strange sort of vacuum that's fading with each passing second. ]

[ Almost immediately upon touching her expression changes, that same anger and impatience and frustration and annoyance that she feels from Peter washing across it, furrowing her brow, widening her eyes, pulling a gasp out of her, the tips of her antennae flaring up with an almost furious glow. She knows about that. It's anger directed at her because of what she'd done. She's almost inclined to pull away but she's drawn back into it by what's beneath that anger-- exhaustion. And beneath that-- the worry. Concern. Concern for... his team. The Guardians. And that includes-- her. It includes her?

Her hand falls away from his as she pieces it all together in her head, the worry and panic having dulled the glow of her antennae somewhat before they glow fades off. ]

--You are angry, upset because you were worried for our safety. I did not listen to you, but more than that you were worried for us.

[ When she pulls away, Peter takes that as his cue to let his own hand fall into his lap. He waits for her, lets her puzzle it out, and when she finally seems to have it sorted, he nods. ]

That's the gist of it, yeah.

[ Dryly, with a faint sort of smile. ]

You guys didn't answer us when we tried calling, yesterday. We tried all night to get in touch, and for a little while, we seriously thought you guys were in trouble or, worse, dead. Then Rocket trudges in earlier today, hungover as hell, with no idea where you were, and then it's a mad scramble to figure out where you ended up.

So— yeah. I was worried.

[ It feels-- strange. Because she still feels the residual mix of anger and concern and panic from Peter and it makes her feel awful for having made him feeling such a way but at the same time... ]

I... no one has ever worried about me before.

[ it almost feels nice and that's a strange confluence with everything else. ]

[ ... Jesus H. Christ.

The admission makes him wince.

(Makes him hate Ego a little more, too, but that's nothing new.)

Peter cuts her another glance, lips parting to speak before he huffs out a breath through his nose, lips pressing together.

Then, ]

... You mind taking the sombrero off real quick?

[ His wincing doesn't escape, and in fact it makes her shrink a little bit into herself because-- should she not have said that? Should she have kept it to herself? She doesn't know what and what not to say, still.

But the request that follows isn't entirely what she'd expected and it earns him a confused look from her as she tilts her sombrero head. ]

I would not mind taking it off.

[ And then a beat before -- ] Oh, you want me to actually take it off.

[ And so she does, and her antennae give a little spring to them as they're freed from the confines of the hat. ]

[ He lets out a sigh of relief once she doffs the hat; Peter wasn’t entirely sure how much longer he could have a serious conversation with her still wearing the thing.

(Where the hell did they even find a sombrero? And at what point in the night did she and Rocket decide sombreros were now, definitely, a thing they were doing?

Questions for another time.)

He shifts a little, rolling his shoulders and dredging up the right words. He’s quiet as he works through them, discarding a comment here and there, tongue running over his teeth as he thinks. ]

I know you’re still getting used to... literally everything. And it’s a giant adjustment, I know. Going from one world to another, like getting tossed into the deep end of a pool and having people expect you to know how to swim. And— you’re doing alright, mostly. Or it looks like it, anyway. But you have to be more careful, dude, especially in a place like this. You can’t believe every single thing a person tells you.

Especially Rocket. Because Rocket likes to lie.

[ Somehow, training with Peter again comes much more easily than the other things she's tried to share with him since he lost his memory. The familiarity of a fight, of keeping her body in motion as she shows him move after move keeps her grounded, and true to her word, she doesn't mind starting from the beginning. He responds well, already in good shape and in actual fighting condition (unlike after the bullet wound months ago), and so at least their work isn't entirely from scratch.

She's also shockingly patient, even as she has to go over the basics, helping him with his form and correcting him when necessary. She teaches him how to take a fall and how to recover, how to use his weight and how to keep his balance, and at first, that's all she's showing him. No sparring, no fights, because he isn't ready (and maybe because part of her is hoping that at... some point, it might jog his memory?). But she lets him practice on her, lets him see how she blocks and evades to demonstrate for a frame of reference that she knows is just as gone as the rest of his experiences now, and she at least slows it all down just enough that he can learn from it.

It's nice, if she's honest. It's some flicker of their old normalcy, and she didn't realize how much she needed that for herself in the wake of everything lost with Ego and the changes their lives had undergone. She can't fight him like she used to, but it's still refreshing to see him engaged, to see him genuinely trying instead of wandering the ship, aimless and lost.

Purposeless.

This provides a goal, something for him to reach for after he's made it clear that he wants to contribute, that he won't just sit back like a silly houseplant or a useless pet while they take on new work — which they have to, to keep themselves afloat. Even if those jobs don't involve Peter right now, they still have to maintain a presence and bring in units, and though there's the occasional notice of Star-Lord's absence, they get things done and hold it together (because they have to). There isn't the same kind of seamless teamwork that comes out in their fights with Peter there as their leader, but they've had to make it work without him before, and they try to treat it like yet another exercise in cohesion.

(Even if all of them acknowledge that they just want Peter back. They want him fighting at their sides, keeping them grounded like he always does. At least they aren't at each other's throats when it comes to getting down to business. Bickering? Certainly. But they pull it together, and that helps.)

Another three weeks pass with no sign of the old Peter Quill, a couple of short jobs coming and going along with them, but Gamora still keeps up their training. She's started moving them onto sparring, and when Peter takes a swing, she retaliates. She doesn't fight him hard enough to hurt, doesn't try to overwhelm him, but she still comes back at him with her own attack each time he goes on the offensive.

For what feels like the tenth time, she finds herself sweeping his ankle out from under him and taking him down to the mat — fortunately for him, without the same heavy, careless impact that she used to employ when they trained before. There's a strange sense that she's done this before, with how easily she keeps knocking him down, but she waves it away, banishes it to the back of her mind.

(It's just a hint of something that seems ages away now.)

With Peter's back on the mat and her knee on his chest, she just looks levelly down at him — and unlike before, unlike those moments of failed memories and empty places where familiarity should be, there's no disappointment in Gamora's eyes.

Instead, determination. ]

Again.

[ She rises effortlessly off of him, then offers him a hand up. ]

Watch your footwork; you leave me too many openings to knock you off-balance when you stay stationary too long.

Edited (whomp whomp literally only edits my subject gj me) 2017-05-08 22:03 (UTC)

[ It helps, having something to do. At least, it’s more constructive than wandering the corridors of the Quadrant, better than listening to music that means very little to him, better than staring at the bulkhead and hoping something my right rise from the emptiness in his head – something from nothing.

(More and more, Peter becomes sure that there’s nothing of his old life left in him, though he doesn’t say so aloud – not after his heated discussion with Gamora in the Quadrant’s bar. He can see the hope in the team’s eyes, despite how they try to temper it, and more and more, he feels little flickers of resentment from them.

But maybe he’s imagining that. Maybe it’s in his head, something conjured by his lack of progress.

And more and more, Peter finds he just... doesn’t care to get it back, doesn’t care whether or not it does. He’s content as he is, and guilt sours in his gut for it.)

Gamora trains him, but even if he’s impatient to get started, to dive straight in, he holds his tongue. Listens with patience as she walks him through the basics, through forms, all without throwing a punch or a kick his way. A part of him bristles, wants to tell her to get on with it, but he knows this is important, too. He can’t possibly do what he’s seen Gamora and Drax do as they sparred, and he’ll most certainly never get there without at least the basics in place.

They leave on jobs and assignments and business meetings, leave Peter behind to haunt the Quadrant – sometimes with Kraglin minding the ship along with him, sometimes without. While they’re gone, he focuses on moving through the forms, tries to mimic them from memory without Gamora there to correct his placement. He feels— lonely when he’s on his own like this, feels useless, and it makes him bristle.

He hopes that once he’s good enough, they’ll take him along.

Three weeks along, though, and he’s not good enough. He’s tentative, overly cautious, missing the easy chances in favor of staying on his guard. Every blow he tries to deliver is delayed by a split-second of hesitation. He’s careful in a way he never was before, slow and uncertain, not quite trusting his instincts. Gamora blocks him with ease, every time. Knocks him onto his back with hardly a thought.

The wind rushes out of his lungs as she presses his knee against his sternum, and he lets out a small, aggravated noise for being beaten again. Only to be expected, he knows, and he doesn’t complain; Gamora has far more experience than he does, after all, and at this point, he’s still a novice.

He risks a glance up into her eyes, and he preemptively steels himself for the disappointment that will surely be there. When nothing greets him but a steely resolve, he blinks up at her, startled, and he nearly misses the fact that she’s offering him a hand up. He takes it, though, pulls himself to his feet.

At her instruction, he nods, digesting the criticism as best as he can with a grim sort of frown. ]

It’s— a lot to keep in mind.

It is.

[ Gamora agrees like it's the most obvious fact in the world. ]

But that's what will keep you alive in a fight. You have to be aware of all of this at any given time, and you must be constantly thinking two steps ahead of your enemy.

Everything happens quickly, and to keep your life, you have to combine the skills you're learning here — and you have to stay on the offensive.

[ She steps into his space suddenly, and when she swings her arm up, it comes as a blur, stopping a bare inch from Peter's cheek. ]

When I attack, defend and counter; don't wait for my next strike.

[ He barely registers she's moved, and by the time he does, her arm has already stopped just shy of slamming into his face. He flinches away, far too late, and he winces at himself for it, huffing out a frustrated breath. ]

I don't—

[ He pauses, shakes his head as he rephrases. ]

How do I know when to attack? It just— never seems like the right time.

You observe your opponent. You have to look for a pattern in their strikes, and respond, instead of letting them continue to beat you back.

You see this?

[ She nods towards the arm she's still holding up. ]

My side is exposed. Duck, and then aim for my ribs or my stomach. You can turn the tide as soon as you have analyzed how they move, and turn it against them. You have to take control of the pace and use it to your advantage, or you'll continue to be reacting instead of acting.

[ She lets her arm fall, and takes a step back from Peter. ]

Look for openings, and exploit them.

[ This bit of information gets filed away with all the rest, and Peter is starting to realize that he may, in fact, be over his head with this silly notion of his, fighting alongside the rest of them. It's a great deal to process, a lot to keep track of, and he wonders if maybe this wasn't a good idea in the first place?

But the shakes the thought from his head, takes another step away to put more space between them. He licks his lips, nodding hesitantly. ]

Okay. I think... I think I've got it.

Good.

[ She puts more distance between them, sliding into her own defensive stance. ]

Then come at me again — and don't hold yourself back. You won't hurt me.

[ It's still a matter of getting him to throw himself into the fight, to put more force into it, but she's also been careful not to push him too hard. ]

[ That hesitation again, that look of uncertainty crosses his face, but he takes a deep breath, nodding again.

He circles around, as much to find an opening as to stall for time to steel his nerves, but at last, he rushes forward, and for a little while, he seems a little more confident, moves with a little more purpose and determination, but it flags, soon enough. Peter has always been fast, and even the loss of himself couldn't change that; what it could change was the way he used that speed. In the early days, Peter was a little more reckless, would fall for easy feints because he took too many chances – most of the time it meant Gamora would flip him onto his back, but in the later days, he could sometimes recover and keep the round going.

Now, he uses that speed to dance back, focused on dodging, on guarding, not because he's afraid of hurting Gamora, but because he's cautious, because he thinks too long on his moves instead of trusting his instincts and reflexes.

Inevitably, Gamora gains the upper hand, throwing him to the ground.

Again. ]

[ Fighting Peter now is incredibly different to what she was used to before. It's easier, for one thing, but his tactics have changed enormously. He doesn't move the way Peter used to, doesn't take the same risks or fall into the rhythm in all those unpredictable Peter Quill kinds of improvisation. Peter kept her on her toes, even if she was naturally stronger and faster than him, and she'd appreciated that about sparring with him.

This Peter thinks too long, too hard on moves that should be second nature, and inevitably, she's beating him back, forcing him to defend when he needs to attack. When she takes him down, however, in an effort to soften impact, she finds herself hitting the mat with him, landing right above him, her forearm coming down across his throat.

... Her balance should have been better, really, because she has to catch herself on her other hand, her face landing inches from Peter's as her hair falls messily over her shoulder around them.

She blinks down at him, pausing. ]

... You're defending again.

[ His hand goes to her wrist to pull some of the pressure from his throat, even if the weight she put against it wasn't nearly enough to hurt him or impede his breathing. When she falls against him, when her hair brushes against his cheek, he blinks up at her, startled by her proximity more than anything.

(It should dredge something up. It should remind him of sunlight falling through her hair, catching in the pink strands. It should remind him of the spike of fear piercing his heart.

It should remind him of stumbling with her, catching her as she fell. Saying with an insufferable smirk, "Why, Gamora. Are you falling for me?"

But nothing rises to the surface.) ]

I'm trying not to, alright? [ And his tone is a little defensive – which seems to be the running theme of today. ] This doesn't come as easy to me as it does to you, Gamora.

[ For a moment, she just looks at him, and there's part of her that expects a smartass comment, that usual grin of his, but...

Once again, this Peter is a stranger. ]

This didn't come easy; I trained for it.

[ She pulls her arm away from his throat, sitting up and climbing off of him to kneel at his side instead of... well, being on top of him. ]

Why do you keep retreating? I give you the openings you need.

[ And there it finally is – that look of expectation in Gamora's eyes, that look that tells him she's waiting for something, and as the words leave his mouth, he sees the way it clicks off, like someone flipping a switch and shutting off the lights.

Peter wondered how long it'd take for him to see that.

He lets out a breath and sits up, once she's climbed off; unconsciously, he shifts over slightly to put space between them. ]

I... I don't know.

[ He looks down at his lap, stretches his hands and clenches them into fists.

With a faint thread of humor, ]

Maybe because I don't want to get hit?

[ It's strange how far apart they sit now, as opposed to the casual contact she'd come to expect (even enjoy) with Peter before.

Those inches might as well be an entire solar system at this point. ]

Then the way to avoid being hit?

Hit your opponent first.

[ She at least doesn't sound derisive or frustrated, unlike how she would have reacted months and months ago. ]

You start off strong, but you lose your nerve.

[ A little dryly, ] It might surprise you to know, I don't actually know what I'm doing.

[ He rubs at his brow with a hand, not quite scowling but broaching close. ]

I'm still— trying to wrap my head around all this. I think... defending is just. Easier for now.

I hadn't noticed.

[ That dry sarcasm meets Peter's tone, but she cocks her head, considering him and that frustration she can see just under the surface. ]

We could focus more on defense, if that's what you would prefer.

[ He needs to know that it won't let him be part of the team on jobs any faster, but... continuing to ease him into it isn't their worst option. ]

Building up your pain tolerance or focusing on giving you opportunities to read offensive patterns better — that may suit you for now.

open post, vol. 2

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was your heart prepared for more of this au bc mine was Not

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