[ 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.
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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.