[closed]

[zenwhoberi]

[the first few days — after, that is the only word she knows to use — are some of the tensest she has ever known. it's one thing to be familiar with standing among ghosts, with inhabiting the silence that exists between the things she can't forget, but it's another to face them again after having somehow grown accustomed to their absence. the corridors of the quadrant are still and empty, and every step down them invariably reverberates on the walls, a stark contrast to the constant chaos and close quarters of the milano. a cold contrast.

but life, or, rather, life as she's still learning to know it, returns. rocket tinkers, for better or worse, leaving more than the occasional collection of parts strewn out all over the floor, and soon enough, music starts to fill the space in idle moments — unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting all the same. she yells at drax more than five times in a single day, groot finds a new favorite pastime in getting into things he shouldn't, and mantis speaks up more, little by little.

and peter — peter returns to life as usual, too.

for the most part.

she starts to cross paths with him at some point during almost every night cycle, much more often than she used to, in a variety of places — on the flight deck, by the viewport, at a table in the mess. sometimes, she talks, but more often, she listens; sometimes, no one talks at all. no matter what, there's a part of her that likes these little slices of time, an indulgence carved away just for them. she finds, too, that the realization doesn't trouble her, like it once might have.

now, though, as they're both taking a shift on the flight deck (it's been over two months since they've seen any sign of the sovereign, but no one is ready to give up precaution just yet), she wonders how long it has been since he actually slept. if she had to, and she often has, she could go for days without sleeping (her body mods are nothing if not efficient), but his body tends to quickly show signs of obvious wear. the dark circles are more than apparent under his eyes. his skin appears paler.

it's been over two months. this is far from the first time she's wondered.]

I can keep watch, [she tells him as she turns, voice quiet, gentle in a way that feels less foreign with time.] You should get some sleep.

Comments

[nostalgiabomb]

[ So everything that happened, all the bullshit, all the heartbreak, all of it, was a giant, unmitigated mess, and in the days and nights after, Peter had just felt numb. In the days and weeks immediately after, the team had been uncommonly gentle, in their own way – which, in some cases, meant little more than pulling their punches with their usual verbal barbs, or standing in silent support with him as he zoned out, soaking in the familiar environment of the Quadrant or staring out into the black expanse of space through some porthole.

He appreciates it, though he rarely says so.

Since then, Peter has been Dealing – capital “D” and emphasis included – in that sort of grim-faced, stubborn way that shows he isn’t, but has little choice in the matter. He’s still reeling, if he were in the habit of being honest, but trying almost desperately to get things back to normal. He knows by now that life has an uncommon habit of kicking him square in the balls when he least expects it to, and this isn’t all that different, right? He’s used to life pulling the rug out from under him. He’s been Dealing with it for decades.

He’ll be fine.

(The nightmares happen a lot more frequently, after. He wakes, choking on a scream. Sometimes, he catches himself with his arms outstretched, reaching for Yondu as ice crystalizes on his skin. Sometimes, he clutches at his chest, feeling for the spear of light jutting through his sternum.

And sometimes, he heaves in breath after desperate breath, suffocating under the weight of stars and peace and eternity and that heavy, smothering sense of purpose.

Coffee happens a lot more frequently, too.)

So he forces himself back into old habits: Wrestling with Rocket for a tool. Exchanging stories of his best fights with Drax. Teaching Groot how to do the Robot. Arguing with Kraglin over the best models of ships. Mantis is a new variable, but with how eager she is to learn, they find some common ground. The Walkman is gone, with the Zune standing almost nervously in its place, and Peter starts working his way through the over 300 songs at his fingertips. Some of it he likes, some of it he doesn’t, and some of it is like greeting an old, childhood friend. He pipes it through the ship, some days, sharing it with the rest of the team, but more often, he plugs it straight into his head.

It helps, sometimes.

And things with Gamora are... different. Better? Good? It carries more weight, at least, or maybe that’s just him? Alone time was a tall order, back on the Milano (which sits still partially wrecked in the Quadrant’s hangar; a project he picks at when he needs a moment to himself), but now, with as large as the Quadrant is, it’s far easier to come by, and far easier to find with Gamora than ever before. It’s a mix of comfortable and uneasy, all at once, like they’re moving through the steps of a dance he only half-knows.

Plus, finding time with her is probably the best way to pass the night cycle.

It’s a quiet night tonight, apparently, with the two of them looking out of the viewport. Peter’s zoning out again, cheek resting against his fist, elbow propped up on an armrest, and he jumps a little when Gamora’s voice, quiet as it is, breaks the silence. ]

I’m good. [ And he makes a concerted effort to straighten in his seat, rolling back his shoulders and fiddling idly with some screen on his right. ] Two sets of eyes are better than one.

[zenwhoberi]

[she'd learned quickly, months ago, that peter is not nearly as skilled of a liar as he may believe he is. subtlety has a tendency to escape him; his movements are as unrestrained as the lines of emotion that invariably surface on his face. in an odd way, she has thought once before, it's something to be admired, that freedom to be so unrestrained, but here, now, she only feels a prickle of annoyance at his predictable response.

and, months ago, she'd have let her exasperated sigh exhale, obviously and without hesitation. in this moment, though, she instead inhales through her nose and catches it before release.

(gamora is not patient with others.

she lets groot climb into her lap sometimes when she's making lists for supply runs, finds herself, now, better able to calmly explain to mantis the importance of asking, but she is not patient.

that patience is as much a work in progress as anything else that she has encountered.)

she watches him silently for a beat, raises a brow, then, evenly:]

It'll be one set regardless if you fall asleep in your seat. [when is the much more likely modifier, and even if she keeps it to herself, it's implicit.] And one set will be fine.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ There's a part of him that recognizes he's treading on uncertain ground, here, though he's not sure why. Maybe the weird hitch in her breath? The evenness to her cadence? The skepticism on her face? Regardless, whatever it was he noticed is definitely tossing up a few signs that read "Caution" with blinking yellow lights. ]

I'm not gonna fall asleep.

[ says this asshole, who, ten seconds ago, was visibly two steps shy of doing just that, though he'd never willingly admit it. He's never fallen asleep with his eyes open, but he was pretty close, just then.

And how creepy and hilarious would that have been? The thought nearly strikes him as funny, but he keeps it to himself.

He scrubs at his face with both hands, trying to chase away any lingering drowsiness. He forces a certain level of brightness back into his voice. ]

Besides, you'd be bored up here, all on your own. I'm providing a vital service.

[zenwhoberi]

["i'm not gonna fall asleep," he says, with every possible indication of otherwise, and —

her sigh, short and clipped, is released in the end.

he will talk in circles all night, will continue to grasp onto anything he can to avoid whatever the real issue is, she knows, even to his own obvious detriment; that, more than anything, is what has made something halfway to irritation start to settle in the outline of her jaw. she turns her attention to the screen in front of her for a moment, mashing a few buttons possibly just a little harder than she needs to, before pushing it off to the side.

(not for the first time, she thinks: she's not good at this.)]

Peter. [it's not harsh, exactly, but there's a definite firmness to it.] You can't keep going like this. It's not — [a beat as she looks for a word —] sustainable.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Oh, he thinks, that can’t be good.

The quick, sharp sigh, the tight set of her jaw, the way she keeps herself from putting her fist through the console’s screen. Maybe a wiser man would recognize that he should listen to sense, but that’s one of Peter’s many problems – he is not a wise man, and he most certainly ignores good sense for the sake of convenience. Like when good sense might prove him wrong, or when it makes him do crap he doesn’t want to do.

But in this case, he doesn’t exactly see what the big deal is. The late nights and the lack of sleep aren’t ideal, admittedly, but, hey, it’s giving the two of them some much needed one-on-one time. It would take a bigger fool than Peter to pass up an opportunity like that. ]

Listen— [ He’s trying to keep from sounding too dismissive, because that would surely start a fight. And he’s trying to keep from sounding too defensive, because that’ll put Gamora on the attack. ]

Listen, I appreciate the concern, but I’m good. Seriously. I mean, you make it sound like I haven’t been sleeping at all.

[ And he has been, kind of. Sort of.

Power naps totally count, right? ]

I’m fine. Scout’s honor.