You have been doing this for weeks, not years. Being terrible should be expected.
[ And she needs to keep that in mind. Maybe she'd just hoped enough of that latent muscle memory would help him, that he'd be closer to his original skill level. To his credit, he's better than he could be, but he's nowhere near the Peter Quill who made a genuinely enjoyable sparring partner, who kept her on her toes and was constantly surprising her with the gutsy improvising that had seen him through so many years of fights. ]
[ He breathes out a quiet, mirthless little sound, though it shapes itself as a laugh. ]
I’m still not where I was.
[ And that much is obvious in the way Gamora watched him as he trained, when he would make one move where she clearly expected another, and that’s just how it’s always been, as long as he remembers. Which, given that he only actively remembers things from the past couple of months, is either saying quite a bit or nothing at all.
Both hands drop to his lap, and he picks at the seam of his sweatpants. ]
It’s not going how you want it to. [ Flat, if quiet. ] I can see it on your face.
[ Gamora doesn't respond immediately, because a denial would be dishonest.
Instead, she takes a proper seat on the floor, folding her legs under herself as she considers him. ]
I have high expectations for you, and I want you to reach your potential. That's all.
[ She wants him to be able to fight with them again, to be part of the team — not only because he was such an integral part of the Guardians, but also because she doesn't want him to feel so... alone. She's seen the distant looks on his face, that hesitance and removal from the rest of them, and she wouldn't blame him for feeling out of place, wearing a stranger's clothes and still having no idea who it is they expect to see when they look at his face. ]
[ Peter bites back his first inclination to make a scoffing noise, to roll his eyes and demand that she say what she means.
That she wants him to be how he was.
And Peter’s starting to get really tired of disappointing everyone, every minute of every day.
He swallows that bitterness down, scrubs at his face with frustration, before his voice carries a little on an exhausted sigh. ]
Groot’s gonna be fully grown by the time I’m anywhere near close to ready. [ A touch of humor, though not much of it, because Peter thinks he might actually be right. ] You sure you’re willing to work on it that long?
[ And there isn't an ounce of hesitation this time; the answer comes immediate, like she doesn't even have to think about it.
Because, well.
She doesn't. She means it, wholeheartedly, because if Peter will get his memory back, then fine, he can take all the time he needs. And if not? Then they adapt, adjust — make the changes they have to. ]
As I've said, this is at your pace.
[ ... Even if the way she'd kicked him before hadn't exactly been at his pace, but... she'd needed to push him to gauge again for herself where he stood. ]
[ The immediacy of that answer surprises him, makes him drag his eyes up to study Gamora’s face, like he’s expecting to see the lie written across the bridge of her nose. A few more seconds, he watches her, waiting for a break in that impassive mask, and when none comes, he nods with gratitude.
But he tenses, gaze flitting over to the corridor leading out of the training room, as if to direct her attention to the rest of the crew. ]
Not sure if the others feel that way.
[ Kraglin, for instance, who looks at him with this anger in his eyes, this resentment, when he thinks Peter isn’t looking – and it hurts whenever Peter manages to catch it. Rips straight through his chest.
And Rocket, who looks at him the same way, only sometimes, he’s not as careful about it. Sometimes, he darts out when Peter enters. Sometimes, he stares at him openly from across the room, like he’s asking, “Why the hell are you still here?”
His arm crosses his chest, hand pressing against his twinging side. ]
Do you really think this is gonna work? [ Soft, hesitant; the question has been burning in him, ever since their first day of training. ] If I learn enough and do well enough, I don’t think... I don’t know that everyone is on board with— [ me.
Is what he nearly says. He changes course at the last second, and says instead, with a vague hand gesture, ] —this.
[ It's a good question, if she's honest, one she's wondered about herself. The rest of the team is hurt by what they've lost, even going so far as to be resentful, but Gamora is realistic. She knows this isn't Peter's fault — no more than that gunshot had been. It's a different kind of injury, a different kind of fallout, but Peter is still alive (though she knows what the echoing question is there: "is he really?").
This Peter is different. This Peter doesn't have the experiences that their Peter had. This Peter is...
Still Peter. ]
I think you have to prove yourself to them again.
[ Which isn't necessarily fair, but... on the other hand, it acknowledges that this Peter has ground to cover. ]
And the only way to do that is to get better.
You want to be part of this team, you have to hold your own here.
[ That last part trips him up, makes him bite on his lower lip, because—
He has no idea what he wants. He knows what he doesn't want – doesn't want to feel useless. Doesn't want to keep disappointing these people. Doesn't want to keep standing back like some sort of decoration in this strange family's home – like he's some sort of novelty knick knack they couldn't bring themselves to throw away.
But he's not good at this, and if he's honest, he's not sure if he likes this. Fighting. But it's a necessary component of being on this team, isn't it? Given what they seem to do.
If he can't fight, then he can't join with the team. And if he can't join with them, what good is he, really, except to occupy space?
That he doesn't answer right away is telling enough, he knows, and he lets out a quiet breath. ]
[ The pause says more than enough, and as disheartening as it is, it makes sense. He has no concept of who he is, let alone who they are, and without the history to back it up, for all of them, it's difficult to remember their connection.
... And some of them take more offense to that than others.
She nods once, then climbs to her feet. She offers Peter her hand again with something, and there's something in her eyes that's— just a bit softer.
(Closer to the way she'd looked at Peter sometimes before, in their quieter moments together.) ]
Do what feels right to you, Peter.
[ If that means fighting, excellent, she can teach him that. If it means something different, some deviation from the Peter Quill they'd all known... well, they'll figure it out. ]
[ Gamora doesn't drop her hand, continuing to watch him, waiting with that offer at the ready. ]
It would still take more than that for us to abandon you.
[ Though a small, uncertain part of her calls up a reality that she can't ignore: Peter is the glue that keeps them together. How will they hold on when that glue has dissolved around them?
The last couple jobs had already been... a little rocky without him there, and she can't readily predict the long-term effects of that. Not yet. ]
Edited (adds words sometimes whoops) 2017-05-11 08:11 (UTC)
[ he doesn't look entirely convinced by that, and that doubt stays on his face. Gamora is... nice. Most of the time, when she's not trying to snap his ribs with a kick. He wonders if she's saying this to him just to be kind, because they treat him like some delicate, fragile thing, sometimes. Because sometimes, they act like a false word might send him into some sort of fit.
He bites at his lower lip again, reluctant, before he finally tentatively puts his hand in hers. The movement jars his bruised side, and he hisses in a breath, hunching over a little and grabbing at the spot once he's on his feet. ]
[ She inclines her head in agreement, because he's absolutely right; a bruise is minimal, compared to what he's not only come back with in the past but also for what's to be expected on their jobs. ]
Maybe it will encourage you to avoid it next time.
[ Hopefully. Though she'll likely pull back before using that amount of force until he's ready for it. ]
[ He clicks his tongue, eyebrows rising a little. ]
I don’t think it’s all that surprising. Bruises, bad. No bruises, good.
[ That look that crosses her face, though, brings him up short, something so quick that Peter’s not quite sure he even saw it in the first place. His lips press together, hesitant, before deciding to let the matter drop. ]
[ He considers it for a second. His side still twinges, but— like he said earlier, this is the least he can expect, right? If he really means to work with the team, to head out with them on those jobs of theirs. If he can’t fight through a bruise, it’ll just make him even more of a liability than he already is.
He takes a breath, moving back a pace or two, smoothing his hand down his bruised side before moving into a defensive stance. ]
Don’t go any easier on me.
[ he’s bad enough at this as it is. If Gamora backtracks now, he’ll never improve. ]
[ Now Gamora really does look pleased, like he's passed some unspoken test or challenge that she hadn't meant to issue — but one she's glad he took her up on. ]
That won't be a problem.
[ She slides back into that attack posture, giving him the space of a moment before she moves in again. Gamora has always operated better at close range, so while this is far more her skillset than it happened to be Peter's, she's intent on passing on enough experience at hand-to-hand. She doesn't slow down from before, but she also isn't trying to slam him to the ground, by comparison.
Catching him once on the shoulder, she takes another sharp step closer, suddenly in Peter's space as she swings her other arm around to aim for his ribs again. She stops her forearm just inches from his side instead of slamming it into him.
Not easier, but not brutal. ]
When you counter, make distance and then close it. Force me onto the defensive.
[ That look is unmistakable, at least, and he feels his face warm a little with it, briefly reflecting back some of satisfaction.
The round goes about the way he expects it to, which is to say, not very well, but he's still trying to balance his instinct to stay guarded and this new lesson in staying aggressive. It's a difficult harmony to strike, and he still can't get the hang of it. Even harder, with Gamora still hardly breaking a sweat.
When she steps in, when she aims for his ribs, he sucks in a sharp breath, stealing himself for the spike of pain that was sure to come. It doesn't, though, and it takes a second or two for his mind to catch up with the moment. When it does, he nods a little, swallowing the new lesson. ]
Okay. I'll try.
[ (Another Peter might intone, "Do or do not. There is no "try.") ]
[ A short nod, and then Gamora is stepping away again, taking up that distance to prepare for another round. She helps him roll with the pace of the fight, but once again, she finds herself pushing him on the edges of his guard, closer and closer until she's completely controlling the pace. However, instead of ending the fight now that she has the advantage, she eases back their proximity, enough that when she throws her next punch, aiming right for his jaw, she telegraphs the move just a bit more.
It's not an effort to give him the actual upperhand, but rather, an opportunity to let him have another shot at redirecting the fight.
And, well, either that or she really won't feel bad about him leaving the fight with another bruise for the day. ]
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[ And she needs to keep that in mind. Maybe she'd just hoped enough of that latent muscle memory would help him, that he'd be closer to his original skill level. To his credit, he's better than he could be, but he's nowhere near the Peter Quill who made a genuinely enjoyable sparring partner, who kept her on her toes and was constantly surprising her with the gutsy improvising that had seen him through so many years of fights. ]
But you're improving.
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I’m still not where I was.
[ And that much is obvious in the way Gamora watched him as he trained, when he would make one move where she clearly expected another, and that’s just how it’s always been, as long as he remembers. Which, given that he only actively remembers things from the past couple of months, is either saying quite a bit or nothing at all.
Both hands drop to his lap, and he picks at the seam of his sweatpants. ]
It’s not going how you want it to. [ Flat, if quiet. ] I can see it on your face.
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Instead, she takes a proper seat on the floor, folding her legs under herself as she considers him. ]
I have high expectations for you, and I want you to reach your potential. That's all.
[ She wants him to be able to fight with them again, to be part of the team — not only because he was such an integral part of the Guardians, but also because she doesn't want him to feel so... alone. She's seen the distant looks on his face, that hesitance and removal from the rest of them, and she wouldn't blame him for feeling out of place, wearing a stranger's clothes and still having no idea who it is they expect to see when they look at his face. ]
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That she wants him to be how he was.
And Peter’s starting to get really tired of disappointing everyone, every minute of every day.
He swallows that bitterness down, scrubs at his face with frustration, before his voice carries a little on an exhausted sigh. ]
Groot’s gonna be fully grown by the time I’m anywhere near close to ready. [ A touch of humor, though not much of it, because Peter thinks he might actually be right. ] You sure you’re willing to work on it that long?
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[ And there isn't an ounce of hesitation this time; the answer comes immediate, like she doesn't even have to think about it.
Because, well.
She doesn't. She means it, wholeheartedly, because if Peter will get his memory back, then fine, he can take all the time he needs. And if not? Then they adapt, adjust — make the changes they have to. ]
As I've said, this is at your pace.
[ ... Even if the way she'd kicked him before hadn't exactly been at his pace, but... she'd needed to push him to gauge again for herself where he stood. ]
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But he tenses, gaze flitting over to the corridor leading out of the training room, as if to direct her attention to the rest of the crew. ]
Not sure if the others feel that way.
[ Kraglin, for instance, who looks at him with this anger in his eyes, this resentment, when he thinks Peter isn’t looking – and it hurts whenever Peter manages to catch it. Rips straight through his chest.
And Rocket, who looks at him the same way, only sometimes, he’s not as careful about it. Sometimes, he darts out when Peter enters. Sometimes, he stares at him openly from across the room, like he’s asking, “Why the hell are you still here?”
His arm crosses his chest, hand pressing against his twinging side. ]
Do you really think this is gonna work? [ Soft, hesitant; the question has been burning in him, ever since their first day of training. ] If I learn enough and do well enough, I don’t think... I don’t know that everyone is on board with— [ me.
Is what he nearly says. He changes course at the last second, and says instead, with a vague hand gesture, ] —this.
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This Peter is different. This Peter doesn't have the experiences that their Peter had. This Peter is...
Still Peter. ]
I think you have to prove yourself to them again.
[ Which isn't necessarily fair, but... on the other hand, it acknowledges that this Peter has ground to cover. ]
And the only way to do that is to get better.
You want to be part of this team, you have to hold your own here.
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What am I supposed to do? Take out an army?
[ It comes out dryly, at least, instead of resentfully. ]
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No, not an army.
[ Though who knows? They may find themselves up against another army. It seems to be a trend for them, these days. ]
Focus on getting to the point that you can join us in battle. Work beside us.
The rest will come with time.
[ She pauses, considering for a moment before she adds, ]
If this really is what you want.
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He has no idea what he wants. He knows what he doesn't want – doesn't want to feel useless. Doesn't want to keep disappointing these people. Doesn't want to keep standing back like some sort of decoration in this strange family's home – like he's some sort of novelty knick knack they couldn't bring themselves to throw away.
But he's not good at this, and if he's honest, he's not sure if he likes this. Fighting. But it's a necessary component of being on this team, isn't it? Given what they seem to do.
If he can't fight, then he can't join with the team. And if he can't join with them, what good is he, really, except to occupy space?
That he doesn't answer right away is telling enough, he knows, and he lets out a quiet breath. ]
I'll work on it.
[ It's all he can do. ]
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... And some of them take more offense to that than others.
She nods once, then climbs to her feet. She offers Peter her hand again with something, and there's something in her eyes that's— just a bit softer.
(Closer to the way she'd looked at Peter sometimes before, in their quieter moments together.) ]
Do what feels right to you, Peter.
[ If that means fighting, excellent, she can teach him that. If it means something different, some deviation from the Peter Quill they'd all known... well, they'll figure it out. ]
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He meets her gaze again, uncertainty clear in the furrow of his brow, in the corners of his eyes. ]
What if what feels right isn't... [ Another vague gesture, likely meant to encompass the training room. ] ... this?
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It would still take more than that for us to abandon you.
[ Though a small, uncertain part of her calls up a reality that she can't ignore: Peter is the glue that keeps them together. How will they hold on when that glue has dissolved around them?
The last couple jobs had already been... a little rocky without him there, and she can't readily predict the long-term effects of that. Not yet. ]
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He bites at his lower lip again, reluctant, before he finally tentatively puts his hand in hers. The movement jars his bruised side, and he hisses in a breath, hunching over a little and grabbing at the spot once he's on his feet. ]
Dammit.
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... You took that harder than I expected.
[ The kick, she means — and it sounds like it might be an apology (in a few different words). ]
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I’m fine. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.
It’s the least of what I might get if I were actually out there with you guys, right?
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Maybe it will encourage you to avoid it next time.
[ Hopefully. Though she'll likely pull back before using that amount of force until he's ready for it. ]
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Trust me, I was already trying to avoid it in the first place. I don’t think I need the extra incentive.
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[ She says it blandly, but there's a flicker of warmth at the briefest of familiarity that she sees in Peter's face.
Small. Something. ]
But you should still ice it.
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I don’t think it’s all that surprising. Bruises, bad. No bruises, good.
[ That look that crosses her face, though, brings him up short, something so quick that Peter’s not quite sure he even saw it in the first place. His lips press together, hesitant, before deciding to let the matter drop. ]
Are we stopping?
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[ It's not a challenge or at all unkind when she asks, if only because she really is tailoring this to Peter's beginner status. ]
If you can still keep up, we can try again.
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He takes a breath, moving back a pace or two, smoothing his hand down his bruised side before moving into a defensive stance. ]
Don’t go any easier on me.
[ he’s bad enough at this as it is. If Gamora backtracks now, he’ll never improve. ]
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That won't be a problem.
[ She slides back into that attack posture, giving him the space of a moment before she moves in again. Gamora has always operated better at close range, so while this is far more her skillset than it happened to be Peter's, she's intent on passing on enough experience at hand-to-hand. She doesn't slow down from before, but she also isn't trying to slam him to the ground, by comparison.
Catching him once on the shoulder, she takes another sharp step closer, suddenly in Peter's space as she swings her other arm around to aim for his ribs again. She stops her forearm just inches from his side instead of slamming it into him.
Not easier, but not brutal. ]
When you counter, make distance and then close it. Force me onto the defensive.
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The round goes about the way he expects it to, which is to say, not very well, but he's still trying to balance his instinct to stay guarded and this new lesson in staying aggressive. It's a difficult harmony to strike, and he still can't get the hang of it. Even harder, with Gamora still hardly breaking a sweat.
When she steps in, when she aims for his ribs, he sucks in a sharp breath, stealing himself for the spike of pain that was sure to come. It doesn't, though, and it takes a second or two for his mind to catch up with the moment. When it does, he nods a little, swallowing the new lesson. ]
Okay. I'll try.
[ (Another Peter might intone, "Do or do not. There is no "try.") ]
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It's not an effort to give him the actual upperhand, but rather, an opportunity to let him have another shot at redirecting the fight.
And, well, either that or she really won't feel bad about him leaving the fight with another bruise for the day. ]
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