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Peter isn't so out of touch with Earth that he's unaware of the way Christmas has become commercialized. He remembers his mom talking about it, especially during the years when she was sick and money was even tighter than usual. He remembers her talking to his grandpa about it when they'd thought he was asleep, bemoaning the fact that he'd noticed how meager their decorations and wrapped presents under the tree were compared to his classmates at school. He remembers that he'd asked her whether it was because he'd failed to be good enough that year even though he was too old to believe in Santa, really.
She'd told him then that Christmas was about love and family, about the memories you make with the people who are important to you. And his mom, the best person he's ever known, was always right about everything.
So the Christmas his friends made for him on Knowhere was absolutely perfect, give or take a tiny little bit of kidnapping.
But also, knowing what he does as an adult who lives in a galaxy that operates primarily on profit and greed, he probably shouldn't have been surprised when that bit of heartfelt novelty turned into Rocket’s latest business venture.
He is, though. Surprised. And more than a little bit bitter.
“We’ve already got the whole place decorated!” Rocket had argued, clearly already counting the units they had yet to make. “We’ll need to start making money to operate this hole somehow, and people will totally pay to experience the novelty of a Terran holiday.”
Peter hadn’t felt like arguing. He hadn’t felt like doing much of anything really, other than whatever was required to make Knowhere habitable for those in need thanks to Thanos. Even the day-to-day requirements of keeping himself alive had been falling by the wayside recently. The revelation that Mantis is his sister, someone whom he already loved like a sister anyway, at least gave him something to be happy about.
It’s his newfound sibling he’s thinking about as he sits on a balcony overlooking the main part of Knowhere, teeming with visitors taking in the Terran Christmas Experience. He’s loath to admit that Rocket was right about how popular it would be, but he’s glad that so many people are getting joy out of it. Mantis and Drax in particular are greatly enjoying their roles as the storytellers who explain the customs of Christmas on Terra, almost all of them incorrect.
He’s watching them regale a crowd with the tale of how breaking and entering is a Christmas tradition, and how they themselves fulfilled that tradition, when a flash of something catches his eye.
A group of people in all-too-familiar red jackets are standing at the edge of the entrance to the main area, some of them arguing with Rocket as he, presumably, tries to sell them on the Experience. And there, standing off to the side as if trying to stay out of Rocket’s sight, is Gamora.
For a moment, he's certain that he's imagining it. Goodness knows he's dreamed of this often enough. So often, in fact, that he's begun to dread it. At first it had felt like a connection, if only in the smallest way. A part of her, with him still. Now it just feels like the universe mocking him, reminding him that she – a version of her, anyway – is out there somewhere. And that it's somewhere unknown to him, in spite of all his efforts, because she doesn't want to be found.
So it wouldn't exactly be surprising if he were imagining her here, on Knowhere, especially because it's the last place that they were –
He rejects the end of that thought forcefully, refusing to verbalize it even in his own mind. It's haunted him far too often, living on and owning this place. He does his best to tell himself that making it a refugee colony of sorts is a tribute to Gamora – and all the others Thanos killed – but that really doesn't make it any easier.
And – more importantly – it turns out that he isn't imagining Gamora’s presence here. Not unless her crew – her crew? – is also in on his personal fantasy. Several of them have turned around and appear to be begging her permission to take Rocket up on his proposition, in much the same way Peter remembers addressing Yondu.
She must agree, possibly only to keep Rocket from peering around and seeing her there, because the others cheer, pulling out their pads to give Rocket the units. Gamora turns and begins walking away in the opposite direction, which finally awakens Peter from his stupor.
“Shit,” he hisses, heart pounding as he scrambles to stand up. He curses again when his knee bangs into the crappy safety bar, then again at how slow his progress is. She’ll be long gone if he doesn’t hurry the hell up.
He finally makes it to his feet and all of two steps away when a firm hand on his shoulder halts him in his tracks.
“Don’t,” Nebula says, when he whips around to see who is keeping him from going after the goddamn love of his life. Her fingers tighten on his shoulder – it’s her cybernetic hand too, so it’s not exactly gentle, keeping him anchored to the spot unless he wants to wrench his arm off entirely.
“Why the hell not?” he growls, trying his luck at dislocating his arm anyway. Her fingers dig in painfully, her face utterly unsympathetic.
“She clearly does not want to be seen,” Nebula says calmly. “So you will not be running after her like a lunatic.”
“I’ve been trying to find her for months!” Peter practically yells. He probably does actually look a bit like a lunatic, if the way he’s feeling is any indication. He’s about ready to shoot his own arm off if it will let him go find Gamora. “And now she’s right here!”
“What exactly do you think you’re going to do when you do find her?” Nebula asks, still infuriatingly unaffected.
“I–I don’t–” He sputters, brain too addled to work that quickly. “I don’t know! Bring her back to us, to her family!” It should be obvious, shouldn’t it? Especially to Nebula, who is part of her family – and Peter’s too, reluctant as she may be too admit it.
But if it’s obvious to Nebula, she certainly isn’t letting on. She simply stares at him, blinking slowly despite the fact that he knows she doesn’t technically need to, thanks to her cybernetic enhancements. Peter knows this look: It’s the one she gives to people when she thinks they’re being especially idiotic.
“What?” he asks, though he knows what her reaction means. He’s grown used to Nebula’s vitriol, but right now, it pisses him off. Especially since it means Gamora has even more time to slip away again.
“How do you plan to bring her back?” Nebula asks. “With your stellar skills of persuasion? By asking her to dance with you? Or maybe you were planning on having Mantis use her powers so you could put her in a box like Kevin Sausage.”
“Bacon,” Peter snaps. “Kevin Bacon. It’s an entirely different breakfast–” He catches himself falling into her trap, and rakes his free hand through his hair with a growl of frustration. “We’re her family, Nebula. She’s scared but on some level, she’s gotta recognize that.”
“She does not,” Nebula snaps, “recognize you. As far as Gamora is concerned, I am the closest thing she has to family.”
While that’s something he already knew, he feels the urge to recoil as if physically struck anyway; he would have, if Nebula didn’t have such a strong grip on him. “She is your sister. Don’t you want her back?”
“Not enough to force her,” Nebula says firmly. “She would find us if she wanted to join us.”
“How would she know how to—?” He pauses, suspicion sharpening his jumbled mind. He searches Nebula’s face, and while she’s normally not easy to read, he doesn’t really need any confirmation of this thought. “She does know how to contact us, doesn’t she? Or…she knows how to contact you.”
“I am the only familiar thing to her in this timeline,” Nebula says, her non-explanation all the confirmation he doesn’t even need. “Of course she has been in contact with me.”
“She’s–wait, you’ve been in contact with her?” he whispers harshly. He would have yelled again, except for this weight on his chest that’s making it difficult to breathe in anything other than a harsh panting rhythm. “I thought she just had your code or something! You know I’ve been looking for her, that I’ve been worried sick about her, and all this time you’ve been talking to her behind my back?”
Nebula’s fingers tighten on his shoulder again, even though he feels rooted in place, and her voice is harsh. “I do not need your permission or knowledge to speak to my sister. But no, I have not been talking to her. We have…known of each other’s whereabouts.”
For a moment, Peter experiences pure acrid hate. Later, he’ll regret it, will be able to acknowledge it for the selfish jealousy it is, but right now…Right now, all he can think is that they have both betrayed him, though mostly Nebula since she knows better. She, he’s suddenly certain, has been watching him search, watching him suffer, and probably been getting some sort of sadistic laugh out of thinking him pathetic. Not unlike how the other kids in his class on Earth had sniggered to one another when he’d come to school crying about his mom’s sickness.
It makes him want to defy Nebula even more, to throw off her grip – damn her strength – and go down there after Gamora. To prove that she’s wrong, that he’s doing the right thing, that Gamora still knows somewhere in her heart that the Universe made them for one another.
“She allowed me to have this knowledge on the condition that I did not share it with anyone else, Quill,” Nebula hisses, almost as if she can tell what he’s picturing. To be fair, he’s probably not being subtle. “You think my sister would not have found out, had I compromised her trust?”
That is really not a fair argument, Peter thinks immediately, because of course Gamora would have found out. Gamora is brilliant. But he can’t bring himself to admit that Nebula may have a valid point.
“Which would you prefer?” asks Nebula, with the determination of a sharp blade plunging home. “That I had knowledge of Gamora’s whereabouts, or that she was truly alone in this timeline?”
His hand curls into such a tight fist that he can feel his fingernails digging painfully into his palm. “That’s not fucking fair.” None of this is fucking fair, not one single fucking ounce of what’s happening; especially not that he has a chance to reunite with Gamora and her own goddamn sister is getting in the way.
Least fair of all, perhaps, is that she's right. He cannot bring himself to wish that Gamora had no one, no matter how jealous or hurt he might be.
“The universe is not fair,” Nebula says coldly. “It has been especially unfair to Gamora, so we will honor whatever way she wishes to deal with that.”
“She could be happy with us,” he argues, still trying to tug himself away from her grip like a desperate, caged animal who doesn’t realize how futile its efforts are.
Nebula does not budge. “Thanos robbed her of her freedom for twenty years. She makes her own choices now.”
That, finally, punches the fight right out of him. His shoulders, and all the rest of him, deflate. “I wasn’t gonna kidnap her or something. Yeesh.”
The fingers finally let go and his shoulder throbs. Nebula, to his surprise, actually pats it a couple of times in some of the most awkward, reluctant comfort he’s ever received – which is saying something, given that Yondu raised him for most of his life.
She grimaces when she pulls her hand away. “Do not go looking for her. You will scare her away forever.” She turns and walks away before he can even finish sputtering his protest that he would not have scared her.
Except that he must have already, or she wouldn’t have run, would she? He’s been comforting himself with the thought that she doesn’t know him, hasn’t had a chance yet to recognize their places in each other’s lives. Except she did instinctively seek out Nebula, despite what he knows of their past together. So what does that say about him, then? Probably that he’s a sentimental idiot.
Peter tries to find his anger again, his absolute confidence that she’s wrong. But it really is like a fire, because now that Nebula’s words have snuffed it out, it’s gone cold entirely. Now all he feels is…empty. And sad. And really damn tired, both in general and of feeling empty. He’d thought he’d had more than a lifetime’s experience with grief, between losing his mother and then Yondu, losing everything he’d ever believed about his biological father, too. But losing Gamora…
Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel experienced with that. It’s broken something inside of him that he didn’t even realize he had left to lose.
“Peter!” Mantis’s voice comes from below, breaking into his thoughts. For a moment he thinks she must have seen Gamora too, and jumped to far too happy conclusions.
Sighing, he leans over the railing again, trying not to look around for Gamora. “Mantis–”
“Peter, come down here!” She’s bouncing several feet off the ground with excitement. “Bzermikitokolok has a new song, and he is going to play it for our guests!”
Bzermikitokolok and the Knowheremen’s new song is, at least, slightly less inaccurate than their previous ones. Kevin Bacon must have explained more about Christmas when he sang with them, as weird as that is for Peter to think about.
Of course, the band can’t play just one song, so they’re treated to the extremely inaccurate ones afterwards. Peter can’t really be mad about it, though; the atmosphere remains festive, Mantis remains happy, and it’s all distracting enough that he goes almost five seconds at a time without thinking about Gamora.
“The units just keep rollin’ in!” Rocket yells next to him. They’re standing towards the outside of the large crowd that surrounds the stage, which Peter tells himself is not because he’s hoping he might catch a glimpse of Gamora if she decides to come back into this part of Knowhere. Groot and Mantis are dancing along to the music, Drax is still resisting the pull, and Nebula is predictably standing even farther back with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” Peter grumbles. “We’re supposed to be making this place less of a shady traveling post, you know? We’re fixing this up as a haven for people who were displaced by Thanos, not to make ourselves rich.”
“This is a perfectly legitimate business operation,” Rocket says smugly. “One of us has to keep the units comin’ in, otherwise how are we supposed to keep this place running for all those people?”
Peter sighs, and then a flash of dark hair in the crowd marks the end of the latest five second stretch without Gamora-thoughts. It’s not her, of course, but the spike of adrenaline that sets his heart racing doesn’t know that.
“It’s not your worst idea, at least,” Peter says absently, smiling when Mantis bumps into him in her enthusiasm for the song.
She meets his eyes for a moment and he sees her antennae stir ever so slightly, the only indication that she’s read his emotions. She wouldn’t have done it on purpose, he’s sure, because she’s good about not imposing her powers on others – unless it’s in service of kidnapping a certain Terran actor. And, he guesses, she probably wouldn’t want to experience most of the things he’s been feeling recently. He sees sympathy cross her features and bites his lip against a swell of resentment. He doesn’t want any of the others to feel sorry for him, to see him as weak or pathetic. But that isn’t fair to Mantis, who’s never been anything but kind and concerned toward him.
“Dance with me, Peter!” she says brightly, and he knows immediately that she’s trying to distract him, though luckily she has no idea just what from.
He pastes on a smile he’s certain Mantis won’t entirely buy, and shimmies his hips into a half-hearted rhythm. Most of the crowd has started to dance now, the Ravagers making comments about the novelty of acting like Terrans.
Of course Gamora isn’t here, he tells himself bitterly. She – well, the woman she was when he’d first met her – would hate this sort of spectacle. Nevermind that the love of his life had learned to appreciate dancing.
“Come on, Peter!” Mantis cajoles, doing a little spin and laughing joyfully. “That is hardly dancing!”
“Perhaps he has finally realized that to dance is to be pathetic,” Drax says, ironically equally as gleeful as Mantis in his proclamation.
Peter bristles a little, despite being more than used to this attitude from Drax. He’s about to tell him exactly how wrong he is – that dancing is the greatest thing there is and he would do anything to have his favorite dance partner back – when another flash of color in the crowd catches his eye.
There’s a lot of green on Knowhere, given the decorations and trinkets being sold in the traditional Christmas colors; more than one green sweater has tricked him tonight, made him hope. This time, though, when his heart rate quickens and his breath catches, he’s not disappointed.
Gamora is there, towards the other side of the crowd and even more on the edge than they are. She is not dancing or singing or even really moving, but she’s definitely watching the spectacle. There’s a certain look on her face that he can see even from this distance, that he could see even if he was blind, he's certain. It’s a look of wonder, of awe…of longing for something she doesn’t think she can have. He’s seen it less and less over the years, as she learned that she could have nice things.
As he watches her, she turns from watching the band to looking at the string of lights around the lamppost she’s standing next to, and the look on her face grows softer. She brings her hand up as if to touch one of the bulbs but stops just short of making contact.
A moment later, she snatches her hand back and stuffs it into the pocket of her coat as if the lights might have burned her, though Peter knows that they couldn’t have. Or maybe as if she might have somehow damaged them with her proximity. She glances around guiltily, as if checking to be sure no one’s noticed her momentary lapse of composure, and his heart aches. He recognizes this part of her, this fear of both being seen in a moment of softness and of unintentionally destroying things that are soft and good. That was one of the first things he learned about her, a lifetime ago: she might pride herself on being deadly, but she doubts her ability to be anything else.
And suddenly, a new thought occurs to him. He’d been assuming that her disappearance immediately after the battle with Thanos had been due to fear and mistrust. And just today, he’s been smarting from the implication that Gamora has been avoiding contact with him because she’s viewed him as somehow less worthy of it than Nebula, despite knowing more or less where her once-and-future family was. But now he wonders whether she’s grouped them with dancing, with colorful lights. Whether she’s simply concluded that love and family could not possibly be for her.
“Peter!” Mantis squeals, knocking him out of his reverie as she hurls herself at him in her best approximation of a Terran dance lift.
“Whoa!” he exclaims, trying to catch her even as he stumbles a little in surprise. He might have fallen over if Groot hadn’t been standing right there to catch him. Mantis giggles madly, while Drax and Rocket openly cackle. At least Nebula has wandered off so she’s not there to bear witness.
“I am Groot,” he says as he sets them back on their feet, amusement clear in his voice.
“I could have caught her if I was ready,” Peter says, but he’s completely distracted looking over Mantis’s shoulder to find Gamora again. Given that Mantis had yelled rather loudly, and Gamora has enhanced hearing, he’s worried that she’ll have noticed them.
Sure enough, this time when his eyes scan the crowd to find her, her eyes have already found him.
His breath catches – it’s been so long since he’s made eye contact with her. Even from this distance, he’s struck by how beautiful her eyes are; dark and deep and filled with alarm. He sees her look a little frantically to each side, trying to come up with an escape route. She’d clearly been cautious enough of just Rocket seeing her before, and now the entire team is right here.
Seeming to realize that running would only draw more attention, her eyes meet his eyes once again, and this time there’s a sort of resignation in them, as if she’s resolved that something unpleasant is going to happen. He wonders what she thinks everyone’s reactions are going to be, and then promptly realizes that she probably has no idea, which would be the scariest part of all to her. She’s always hated the unknown, the unpredictable. Much harder to stay vigilant when one doesn’t know what to be vigilant for, she’d said more than once.
“Hey, Star-Munch!’ Rocket says, accompanied by a none-too-gentle nudge of his leg. “What’s got you so krutackin’ distracted?”
Peter has less than a second to make the decision. It would be so, so easy to simply say nothing. The others would follow his line of sight and – some of them, at least, because there’s no accounting for Drax’s obliviousness – would see Gamora. Then he might get to talk to her, at least for a moment. Which is what he wants right now more than his next breath.
It wouldn’t be his doing exactly, wouldn’t be breaking his promise to Nebula, who isn’t even here to see. But that, he realizes, is exactly what Gamora expects from him. That’s why she has such a defeated look in her eyes, no matter how well things might turn out. And she’s still looking at him, equal parts wary and despondent.
And suddenly it doesn’t matter what he wants, or even what he might need. He’s failed her far too many times already, even if she doesn’t remember. He can’t do that to her again.
“Your dance moves,” Peter tells Rocket, knowing that he won’t believe that excuse, especially since he isn’t dancing. But that’s okay, because it’s only the first part of his plan. He looks at Mantis, makes sure she’s ready, then casually tosses her toward Drax. “Catch!”
Rocket, in the line of fire by design, yelps and throws himself out of the way. Mantis giggles madly when Drax predictably doesn’t catch her, but instead simply watches in bemusement as she catches herself against him, with one of Groot’s extended arms grown out to help steady her.
“That was so fun!” she cheers. “Drax, throw me – wait, I didn’t even say where yet!” This last part is squealed as Drax has already picked her up and thrown her at least ten feet in the air before she’s even half way through her sentence. She’s resumed laughing by the time Groot catches her and is yelling: “Again! Again!”
Distraction thoroughly accomplished, Peter quickly turns to where Gamora had been standing to make sure she’s made her escape – only to find that she’s still standing there, looking at him with something between shock and wonder.
Go, he mouths, doing a subtle little wave of his hand. Drax, Groot, and Mantis will be thoroughly distracted for the next few minutes, but Rocket is already picking himself up off the ground and is probably preparing the litany of curses to which he’s about to subject Peter.
Gamora looks at him for another moment, in which Peter feels all the muscles in his chest attempt to squeeze his heart until it explodes, before she offers him a tiny nod and turns to walk quickly away. She makes it a few paces before Nebula comes out of the crowd to fall into step beside her. Peter’s chest feels a little looser because she’s not, at least, completely alone.
This time it’s Groot who throws Mantis his way, and he catches her with a genuine smile.
The Ravagers have enjoyed the Terran Christmas Experience more than Peter ever would have predicted. And that’s saying something, given how proud he is of his home planet’s traditions and how much he usually enjoys sharing them with others. When it isn’t just in the service of making some quick units, of course. And when it isn’t going to result in Rocket gloating insufferably for weeks to come, which this situation definitely promises to do. The thought of that makes his head ache dully…though he can’t say for sure it’s that, because his head has been hurting more often than not lately. The fact that he’s basically reverted to the predominantly booze-and-zargnut diet he kept in his own Ravager days probably doesn’t help.
Still, knowing that isn’t enough to motivate him to do anything other than take his usual evening wander over to the bar around dinnertime. It’s pretty much the only consistently functional part of Knowhere at the moment, not counting the fueling stations, which Rocket had immediately prioritized for the purpose of having some kind of income. Their guest Ravager crew is here tonight, which is also not unexpected since he already saw that their ship is still docked. He can’t quite suppress the flurry of adrenaline in his stomach even though Gamora – of course – is nowhere in sight.
He tells himself not to be disappointed by that. After that near miss at the concert, she’s hardly going to put herself in another crowd.
He’s disappointed anyway.
The atmosphere in the bar is even more boisterous than it has been the past couple of weeks, as people carry on their holiday celebrations with alcohol. The bartenders have even created some themed drinks for the occasion… The occasion of selling them at double the usual price, of course. There’s one that must be based on Bzermikitokolok’s understanding of eggnog that involves an egg being cracked over one’s noggin.
Peter buys one simply called The Chris-Muss, which as far as he can tell is just a regular beer colored red, and tries to let the raucous environment distract him. It doesn’t work any better than it has all night, but at least there’s booze.
Nursing a beer while sitting at a bar, Ravagers talking loudly around him, makes him feel even lonelier than usual. He’s spent quite a few years in situations like this: surrounded by people yet still alone. After the third time someone bumps into him in drunken clumsiness, he sighs and slides off the stool, taking his beer with him. The balcony it is, then.
It’s a place he resolves to avoid every night, and a place he ends up at almost every night anyway. It offers a beautiful view of the stars that surround them, but that’s not what draws him here over and over. He pops in an earbud to listen to his music, leans against the balcony railing, closes his eyes and thinks of the first time he was here with Gamora.
She’d been the one who’d come outside to avoid the crowd then, though she would never have admitted it. Had never admitted, with that adorable stubbornness he’d come to recognize as classic Gamora. His heart aches as he wonders if she still has that same quirk. He wants, more than anything in the universe, to know. That and so many other things.
That’s the truly unfair part of grief, he thinks. The bad memories – the ones where he failed her, where he acted in ways he now regrets – are painful, of course. But so are the good ones, and any new ones he might make. The nice Christmas Mantis managed to give him was a distraction in a way, but he also found himself constantly wanting to tell Gamora about it, to share it with her. The same with the news that Mantis is his sister. Hell, he wants to confide in her about how much he misses her.
He’s in full blown self-pity mode now, so he leans into it and allows himself to conjure her in his mind as she’d been then, the first time they’d stood at this railing together. Quietly fierce, with that surprising undercurrent of vulnerability that had led him to tell her about his Walkman when she’d touched it, rather than brush her away defensively as he’d done to so many others. He remembers the expressive earnestness in her dark eyes when he’d talked about his mother, the surprising combination of gunpowder, leather, and the hint of something unmistakably floral that had been her scent. And –
“Why did you do it?”
Peter jumps, eyes flying open, and practically has an out of body experience at the sight of Gamora standing in front of him.
She can’t really be standing there, can she? Not far from where he was just remembering her standing, not looking different either, save the outfit. Her hair, while still the most beautiful hair in the galaxy, is not as curly as she’d taken to wearing it shortly after they’d met. She had never felt safe or comfortable enough, she’d told him, to really take the care with her hair that she wanted until she'd joined the Guardians. He feels the mad urge to offer to help her with it – she’d taught him to curl it before.
He’s so lost in his reverie that Gamora takes a step closer, looking at him with her head tilted as if examining him. “Quill?”
“I–what?” he asks, still struggling to understand what’s happening. She’s not leaping into his arms or holding her hand out to him, asking to dance, so this probably isn’t a fantasy. Why is she here, though? He'd thought she’d made her escape hours ago, helped by Nebula. But here she is…talking to him. Deliberately.
“I asked you why you did it,” she repeats. She’s standing close enough now that he could probably reach her if he stretched his arm out.
Hands held firmly at his sides, he shifts from foot to foot as he tries to remember how to function. “Why did I do what?” He’s proud of himself for how steady his voice sounds, though he knows that she can hear his heart pounding away in his chest, what with her enhanced hearing.
Her eyes narrow, the slightest crease in her brow indicating suspicion. It’s the sort of expression that’s so subtle, he wouldn’t have been able to read it back when they’d first met. He can now, though, and it’s all he can do not to start babbling in an attempt to reassure her that she has absolutely nothing to fear from him. He’s been thinking about her all afternoon – of course – and the way she’d stopped herself just shy of touching the lights or joining the crowd at the concert. The way she’s kept herself at such a careful distance even with Nebula, though she practically radiates loneliness.
And, now that he’s managed to shake a little of the fog of grief that’s been shrouding him for what feels like an eternity now, he can see that she does have something to fear from him, just as he does from her. Because there is the potential for further hurt, further loss, for finding and then losing each other yet again.
“They would have seen me,” she says after a moment, apparently reaching the conclusion that he isn’t going to understand without further assistance. “If you hadn’t caused a distraction. I know that you did it intentionally, Quill. But why?”
“Oh,” he says, sounding lame even to his own ears. His brain is normally at least a little bit better at processing than this, but it’s a jumbled up mess around her right now. “You just said: cause the others would have seen you. I could tell you didn’t want that to happen.”
Her head tilts even farther, the knot in her brow deepening. She is still unused to anyone caring what she wants, he knows, and it causes yet another stab at his already wounded heart. “I did not ask you to do that. I do not owe you anything just because you did.”
He’s surprised, though he shouldn’t be. It’s just that he’d gotten so used to her trusting him – trusting him literally with her life, even – that the clear distrust radiating off of her still comes as a shock.
“I know that,” he tells her. “I didn’t do it because I expected something in return.”
Her stubbornness persists. “Then why? Your answer that it is what I wanted cannot be why you did it.”
There’s that stab to his chest again. “It can, though. It is. I know, uh…that you don’t remember knowing me.” He swallows, needing to take a breath after saying that painful truth out loud. “But sometimes I do things just because someone else wants it…and sometimes I do it just because.”
Her arms cross over her chest as she studies him. He wonders what she sees, if she sees the same things she saw in him that first time, nearly a decade ago now – though even to him, it was only half that. “Nebula did say you were impulsive.”
“Yeah, I am,” he agrees easily, because he’s totally a mature adult who can admit to things like that. Also because he is impulsive, and because he can tell Gamora expects him to be defensive about that, because she has all of her guards up right now. “But I also have excellent instincts, so usually it works out.”
Gamora is still regarding him warily, clearly not recognizing his attempt at charm. “Nebula said you are a fool who makes terrible decisions.”
“She would,” Peter sighs, with more tired affection than anything else. He wants to be angry or embarrassed over the idea of Nebula talking to Gamora about him, particularly in her usual unflattering way. But honestly, all he can think right now is that she thought it was worth mentioning him at all, and that it appears to have led, at least in part, to the fact that Gamora is standing here now.
“She also said that you gave her a home,” Gamora allows, her gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “And I know that my sister has never had one of those, as little as she would like to admit wanting it. So I guess your judgment can’t be all terrible.”
Gratitude for Nebula expands in his chest; he knows how hard it is for Nebula to say anything nice about anyone. This is practically her equivalent of singing his praises. Nonetheless, he tries to play it cool as he leans back against the railing. “Gee, thanks. Think I can get it in writing from her?”
His sense of humor goes right over her head, not that he expected any different. “Get what in writing?”
“It’s just – it’s a Terran thing,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “It’s not important.”
“A Terran thing like Christmas?” Gamora asks. She’s taken another tiny step closer to him, her body now touching the railing too. It’s such an echo of the way they were standing that first time all those years ago that he nearly misses what she’s asked.
“Like – oh, yes, like Christmas,” he says, gesturing back towards the bar as if that’s where the holiday lives. He shoves his hand in his pocket like he can hide the evidence of that stupid move. “Except Christmas is totally important.”
She actually nods. “I can see it is a significant cultural festival. It is good of you to share it with the rest of the universe.”
He preens a little, feeling a confusing amount of pride. It’s been so long since he’s received a compliment from Gamora that he’s forgotten how much it affects him. “Oh. Thank you. I can’t really take credit for it, though. Mantis and Drax set it all up, and Rocket’s the one who decided to keep it up.”
Gamora considers that, still looking slightly troubled. But she doesn’t appear overtly suspicious of him anymore, which probably means she’s at least somewhat convinced that he isn’t about to try and claim any favors. She also hasn’t left yet, so…he’ll take it.
“Neither Mantis nor Drax is Terran, correct?” she asks.
“No, no, definitely not,” Peter tells her, still trying his best to resist the urge to ramble. He’s missed the sincerity of her curiosity, the way she’s always so expressive when experiencing something new.
“Then why did they take it upon themselves to set it up?” she asks. “Or did you order them to do so?”
Peter snorts in spite of himself. “I definitely didn’t order them.” As if they would have listened if he’d tried. “I didn’t even know they were doing it. Mantis planned it as a surprise because she knows I loved Christmas back on Earth, and she wanted to cheer me up since I’ve been –” He’s lost the battle against rambling and almost walked himself right into a pit. He cannot admit that his friends have been trying to bring him out of his grief over her. That’s exactly the kind of thing Nebula was afraid he would do earlier. He clears his throat. “I’ve been kinda stressed out, what with everything that needs to be done with fixing this place. And Mantis is my sister so, y’know. She thought it would be nice.”
Gamora’s eyes travel over his face again and this time they’re decidedly warm. “You also have a sister?”
A sincere smile spreads over his face, both at her expression and the thought of Mantis; his sister. “Yeah, but we didn’t grow up together. We met five – shit, no, ten – years ago, ‘cause my dad – our dad – was kind of, um… a sack of shit.”
Gamora exhales what is almost a laugh, which twists Peter’s heart in the best way. He remembers how hard it always was to get a genuine laugh out of her in those early days. “I know what you mean. Through I was never bold enough to think about Thanos in those terms. And he is not my father.” She looks down, appearing conflicted. It’s another familiar expression of hers that makes his heart ache.
He nods. “Yeah, well, don’t worry: you’re bold in plenty of other ways. And hey, now we have this in common, right? That we both have a shitty sort of…not-dad…but we each got a sister out of it, at least.”
She lifts her head again to look at him, examining his face with that reluctantly soft look on hers. “Yes. I am very grateful for Nebula. She has been good to me. Better than I deserve.”
“You deserve more than you think you do,” Peter says before his brain can catch up with his mouth. He’s supposed to not be making her feel awkward, and judging by the way she averts her eyes again, he’s managed to accomplish the opposite of that. He doesn’t want to take it back, though. That would be even worse, and it’s not like it’s not true. She deserves everything she could possibly want. “I mean…Nebula sure thinks you do. And she’s turned out to be pretty right about a lot of stuff.”
Her gaze returns to him, so intense that he can feel it like a weight landing on his shoulders. “I know that you – know something of me, or…my counterpart, I suppose. It’s a difficult concept to put into words.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I do. Or did, I guess. And it is.” He’s struggled with how to think about it too, and more with how to feel about it. Of course there’s a part of him that feels like it must be a betrayal, wanting to be with her now when the woman he loved – or at least her mortal body – died five years ago. It isn’t like he’s trying to deny that or replace her in any weird way. At the end of the day, he just wants to be with her in any way that he can, and it seems stupid to deny that, especially since he’s still pretty sure that being with him made her happy too.
“Nebula knows me in that way too,” she allows. “It remains difficult to believe, but she has proven herself to be correct in many ways. I only worry –” She cuts herself off with a sigh.
“What do you worry?” Peter asks gently, when she doesn’t elaborate.
“It’s a vulnerable position, being known by others who I don’t know,” says Gamora. “All my life, I’ve been surrounded by those who would exploit such knowledge. But I find – I’m more unsettled by the possibility that others who think they know me will be disappointed when they learn that I am not, in fact, the same.”
Peter considers this, heart aching for her again. He wants to reassure her that she is the same person, at least in all the ways that matter to him. To her family. But he knows she wouldn’t find that comforting, and in some ways, she’s probably right. “Well…I’m not exactly the same person either. Compared to when I first met…you…I mean.”
“You’re not?” she asks. If he’s not mistaken – which he’s pretty sure he’s not, since he does know her – that’s a note of hope in her voice.
“Of course!” he says earnestly. “A lot of shit has happened in the past decade. Even though I was only here for half of it. Which, like…is its whole own thing that’s changed me. All of us are different than we were when we first met. Even Nebula. Hell, especially Nebula.”
That earns him a real, genuine, tiny smile. “She is very different than the Nebula I knew before…” The smile disappears when she thinks about that. He knows, because Nebula told him, that she killed…herself. The past version of herself. Which is a whole mind-fuck he doesn’t need to think about right now.
“Hey,” he says softly, hand reaching towards her on instinct in a gesture of comfort. Only when she tenses and makes to draw away does he realize what he’s doing and snatch his hand back with a fresh ache in his chest. He knows that Gamora doesn’t have that trust in him anymore, because she doesn’t remember having it in the first place, but damn does it hurt to be reminded. “Sorry. Habit. I just…wanted to say that it’s okay that we’re all different. We’re a family. Families grow together.”
“You are a family,” she says, firm but not harsh. “I hardly know any of you, despite what you may know of me.”
He nods and looks away so she won’t see the moisture that’s built up in his eyes. Crying will definitely freak her out and that’s the last thing he wants. Ironic, of course, because one of the things he misses the most is how accepting Gamora was of his messy Terran emotions and sentiment, as Yondu would have said. But he knows he can’t expect that from her now, and that it would be selfish to put her in such an awkward position. So he stays silent for a long moment and bites the inside of his lip until the physical pain grounds him, drives the grief back to a point where he can breathe. This moment is important, and he refuses to blow it again.
“Sometimes,” he says carefully, swallowing again when he hears the raw edge of his own voice, “we can have family without knowing it. You know how I told you that Mantis is my sister? I actually just found that out a few days ago. But she knew that I was her brother before that, and it changed the way she felt about me.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” asks Gamora. It’s a test, he thinks. She knows, on some level, what point he’s trying to make, but she wants to see what he’ll say when pushed.
“We’re still your family,” he says gently. “Which means we’re here for you, if you want us to be. Even if you don’t know us yet.”
She studies him with a carefully blank expression, but he can still see the longing mingled with the disbelief in her eyes. “That sounds very one-sided. I do not wish to owe anyone anything.”
“You don’t owe your family anything for being your family,” he insists. “We just…are. Here, look, I wanna show you something.”
She tenses automatically when he reaches into his pocket, hand flying to rest on the hilt of her sword. She doesn’t draw it, though, which he considers a win. He telegraphs his every movement, making sure she can clearly see his pocket and his hand when he draws the photograph out.
“What is that?” she asks, eyeing it with all the suspicion deserving of a bomb or some unknown weapon.
“It’s a picture,” he says softly, looking at it again himself. It’s a little worn, because he’s held it too many times to count, but the picture is still good quality. “I found this old camera that reminded me of a kinda camera they have on Earth, that just prints out the picture right after you take it. I used up all the film in like, a day, just taking pictures of all of us.”
Gamora is definitely curious; he can see it in the way she keeps trying not to look at the photo and failing. “All of us?”
“Your family,” he says softly. “Well…except me, cause I took it. But I like this one cause you and Nebula – well, you’ll see. Here.” He holds it out to her, oddly nervous, as if he’s showing her a piece of himself and waiting for her to scoff at it.
Gamora has never been like that, though, even when he first met her; even when he was standing with her on this very balcony, sharing his precious music with a self-proclaimed warrior and assassin. Now, she takes her hand off her sword and reaches out tentatively for the photograph.
Peter is still doing his best to be careful to keep her at ease, certainly isn’t trying to touch her. But his hands are shaking despite his attempts to stay calm, and their fingers brush. He feels the brief contact like a bolt of electricity straight through him. And she does too, judging by the way her head jerks up, her eyes meeting his full of surprise and…He wants more than anything to think it’s longing, but he absolutely refuses to let himself. Her gaze darts over his face, then down to the photograph in her hands. He knows what she’ll see, has looked at it so many times that it’s practically burned into his memory. It’s one of the whole group of them, spread out around the common area in the Quadrant. Gamora and Nebula are in the foreground, not looking at the camera, perhaps not even aware that the photo is being taken. But they’re leaning toward one another, heads close in a clear exchange of gossip, and both of them are laughing.
“This isn’t me,” Gamora whispers, though she sounds more wistful than defensive now. And Peter really, really ought not to be pleased by that, but he can’t help himself. Even if she doesn’t believe that she can have this yet, the fact that she seems like she might want it…
She isn’t entirely wrong, though, and he isn’t about to dismiss it, or argue philosophical questions with her. He knows this isn’t as simple as having forgotten. It’s a question far bigger than either of them. “Well, maybe not. But it could be, if you want.”
She continues to regard him with skepticism bordering on suspicion. “Just like that?”
It’s another test, he can tell. “Well no. It’ll take time, I’m sure. It did when – you know, before. And for Nebula.”
He must have passed the test – if only with a D minus – because the skepticism fades from her face a little. “I am sure that it did. And…I cannot deny that Nebula has grown very much. But she has quite a bit of time on me. You all do.”
“That’s the point, you know?” he says gently. “None of us would expect you to immediately be this…comfortable with us again without getting to know us first. We know there’s a lot of time you’re missing.”
The badly concealed desire to believe him lingers on her face for another few seconds before she stubbornly wipes it clean and holds the photograph out towards him. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I can see that she…that I…that this version of myself was very happy.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, working to keep his voice steady. He clears his throat and holds his hand out, but not to take the picture back; instead, he pushes it gently away from himself, back towards her. “You keep it. I have plenty of pictures of all of us.”
“I couldn’t –” she begins, but he shakes his head.
“Please,” he says. He knows he sounds like he’s begging, for reasons that probably make no sense to her, but he suddenly really, really wants her to have this. If she won’t come back to her family, then she should at least have a reminder that she has one. “And–here, actually, take this too.” He searches his pockets for anything he can write on, and comes up with a scrap of wrapping paper that must have been in there for days now, along with a multi-purpose tool from which he extracts a pen. He scrawls his holo contact code on it and holds it out to her.
“Your code?” she asks, regarding it as though it might be a trap. But also as though it’s something she wants.
“Yeah,” he says softly, throat suddenly tight with emotion again. He isn’t aware of a time when that ever stopped, but he finds himself surprised by it again now. He clears it roughly and winces, wishing he had something besides beer to drink. “Just – you know, to have. In case you ever want to use it. But you don’t – I’m not expecting anything. You certainly don’t owe me.”
He’s babbling again, and for a moment he’s certain that she’s going to refuse. She’d be well within her rights to, and he holds his breath while hoping he hasn’t just screwed everything up. If she runs again, if she decides that he isn’t safe –
“All right.” She takes the scrap of paper from him and tucks it carefully into her jacket along with the photo. Then she reaches out and rests her hand over the one he’s still got extended, frozen because he doesn’t dare move. It’s so light that it’s almost the ghost of a sensation, but undeniably there, unlike the contact she couldn’t quite bring herself to make with the lights.
She stays like that for the space of two breaths, then turns and leaves without another word.
It’s late when Peter wakes, his head full of cotton and his heart full of melancholy. He can’t quite remember getting back to these quarters that still don’t feel like home – either because he’s been used to living on ships for so long or because nothing in his life quite seems to fit anymore. Still, he knows he must have, and that he must have fallen asleep with the help of several more drinks he had after watching Gamora’s ship leave port.
It’s the middle of the night – artificial though it may be on Knowhere – now, but he can’t help noticing the softly pulsing glow of the holo at his bedside, indicating that he has a new message. He holds his breath as he picks it up and allows it to scan his biometrics, telling himself not to be disappointed when it’s inevitably from one of his teammates, or the Nova Corps, or some rando’ trying to sell him something. He’s gotten his hopes up so many times before, yet he can’t help himself from doing the same thing now.
As soon as the message loads, he feels like he could practically float off the bed.
Merry Christmas is all that it says, but he knows immediately that it’s from Gamora and that it isn’t really about the words. The real offering is this connection, fragile though it may be, transcending the gulf of space and time.
And that, he thinks, is a gift he’ll gladly take.