[ He nods quickly at her question, apparently not trusting himself to say much more than "Holy shit," right now. He pulls his headphones down to hang around his neck. Normally he'd clip the Walkman to his belt to free up his hands, but at the moment, the idea of setting it down is the furthest thing from his mind.
He glances back at the capsule, studying the wrapped gift – and that's as he remembers it, too. The familiar feeling of reluctance, of guilt, curls in his gut. For twenty-six years, he never opened Mom's last gift to him – because he was afraid to. Because a part of him wanted to cling to that single moment before everything went to shit. Because a stupid part of him thought that if he opened it, it would close the door on that part of his life, and he'd never be able to go back to it.
He lifts the present from the capsule, slowly, almost reverently, and he tucks the Walkman under his arm to turn the little box over in his hands. Sure enough, the old, worn envelope is still tucked beneath the blue ribbon, his name in blue ink and Mom's handwriting. ]
I can't believe this.
[ For a few breaths, he's caught somewhere between wanting to just laugh or weep with joy, scooping up the Walkman with one hand and holding the gift in the other, and he's not entirely sure where he might fall. His hands shake a little, eyes still stinging, throat stopped up by that weird lump, and he lifts his head up to look at Gamora again.
—Apparently he reaches his decision when he throws his arms around her, laughing a sort of watery laugh. Both, apparently. Both is good. And usually he's a lot more careful about her personal bubble, and usually he makes a point to telegraph his approach, but evidently all his usual caution has been thrown out a window. ]
no subject
He glances back at the capsule, studying the wrapped gift – and that's as he remembers it, too. The familiar feeling of reluctance, of guilt, curls in his gut. For twenty-six years, he never opened Mom's last gift to him – because he was afraid to. Because a part of him wanted to cling to that single moment before everything went to shit. Because a stupid part of him thought that if he opened it, it would close the door on that part of his life, and he'd never be able to go back to it.
He lifts the present from the capsule, slowly, almost reverently, and he tucks the Walkman under his arm to turn the little box over in his hands. Sure enough, the old, worn envelope is still tucked beneath the blue ribbon, his name in blue ink and Mom's handwriting. ]
I can't believe this.
[ For a few breaths, he's caught somewhere between wanting to just laugh or weep with joy, scooping up the Walkman with one hand and holding the gift in the other, and he's not entirely sure where he might fall. His hands shake a little, eyes still stinging, throat stopped up by that weird lump, and he lifts his head up to look at Gamora again.
—Apparently he reaches his decision when he throws his arms around her, laughing a sort of watery laugh. Both, apparently. Both is good. And usually he's a lot more careful about her personal bubble, and usually he makes a point to telegraph his approach, but evidently all his usual caution has been thrown out a window. ]
Holy shit, Gamora.