[ Her next exhale is more of a scoff as she takes another short step back, her eyes turning to the viewport. She shouldn't have encouraged this, she thinks bitterly. She shouldn't have asked about his Gamora or indulged in the music she liked or even just tried to dance.
She still remembers the harsh way he'd snapped at her while he was bleeding out on the Benatar. He'd been right to, she's sure, because Gamora had been overstepping the line of strangers, talking about his Gamora like she had any idea what her other self would want or think or feel. It's so jarring to think that the only difference between herself and the woman Peter knew is a few years, and she still can't help wondering if she would have been in the same place, if she hadn't been yanked out of her own time. She would have grown into the Gamora he loved, she would have been the same woman who fought beside him and the other Guardians. She would have had that life – but someone else already did.
That place has been filled, those experiences already lived, but not by her. This home belongs to someone else. Someone else should be standing on this observation deck with Peter, dancing to songs that they loved. Someone else should be walking these halls, fighting these fights, living this life.
It's not hers, and she feels like a fool for– what? Thinking that maybe it could be?
There's no place for her now, because that spot was never vacated to begin with. The ghost of a woman Gamora is sure she'll never know and never have the chance to become hangs heavily in every hall and around every corner and behind every gaze she meets.
They look at her and see what they want to – and she knows she can only ever fall short. ]
Good night, Peter.
[ And it sounds hollow, defeated as she turns to the door. ]
no subject
She still remembers the harsh way he'd snapped at her while he was bleeding out on the Benatar. He'd been right to, she's sure, because Gamora had been overstepping the line of strangers, talking about his Gamora like she had any idea what her other self would want or think or feel. It's so jarring to think that the only difference between herself and the woman Peter knew is a few years, and she still can't help wondering if she would have been in the same place, if she hadn't been yanked out of her own time. She would have grown into the Gamora he loved, she would have been the same woman who fought beside him and the other Guardians. She would have had that life – but someone else already did.
That place has been filled, those experiences already lived, but not by her. This home belongs to someone else. Someone else should be standing on this observation deck with Peter, dancing to songs that they loved. Someone else should be walking these halls, fighting these fights, living this life.
It's not hers, and she feels like a fool for– what? Thinking that maybe it could be?
There's no place for her now, because that spot was never vacated to begin with. The ghost of a woman Gamora is sure she'll never know and never have the chance to become hangs heavily in every hall and around every corner and behind every gaze she meets.
They look at her and see what they want to – and she knows she can only ever fall short. ]
Good night, Peter.
[ And it sounds hollow, defeated as she turns to the door. ]