Late December evenings in the café were Peter’s favorite — he was in charge of the music, the entire place smelled of sweet spices, there were barely any people left to serve, and Peter’s personal preference — the fuckload of snow falling outside, covering his car in a white blanket that was impossible to drive out from. Sometimes, he thought, it’d be easier to ditch the Milano and walk back home instead of spending an additional hour shoveling the snow off the windshield. And he couldn’t forget the thoughtful moron who always parked his ugly as hell orange Camaro right in front of Peter’s ride, making it even harder to maneuver out of his parking spot.
“And that’s why I need a spaceship,” Peter concluded his rant, “so that I could lift off from the parking lot without having to kick the icicles off the bumper.”
Gamora was leaning across the counter, idly playing with a sugar packet, pretending to pay attention to Peter’s thrilling tale. It was almost ten and few people lingered inside the café before closing.
“I’ll make a note,” Gamora replied finally. “Christmas presents for Peter: one collector’s set of mid-20th century vinyls, one spaceship.” She paused. “What’s up with the music?”
Peter glanced up from the paper bag he was struggling to get open with a wide smile on his face.
“I made the mixtape,” he told her proudly.
Gamora frowned at the speakers overhead. “It’s jammed, Peter. It’s been playing Last Christmas on a loop.”
Peter didn’t spare her condescending tone a thought as he continued pouring cinnamon into one of the plastic shakers that usually stood at the edge of the bar. “It’s supposed to be like that. Last Christmas plays on a loop five times and then it goes on to play the rest of the songs.”
Gamora stared at him in silence for a long moment before pushing off the counter and readjusting her coat. “I’m putting a ban on that song. The next time you sing it within fifteen feet of me will be the last time you sing.”
She wrapped her scarf around her neck a few times and pulled her hair out, letting it cascade loosely down her back. Peter found himself watching. He blinked four or five times, distracted by the random trance, then realized he’d spilled cinnamon all over the menus on the counter.
He swore under his breath. He blamed it on his poor hand-eye coordination, nothing but that, nothing else at all.
By the time he got the situation remotely under control, a few customers had already filtered out of the café, Gamora included, leaving two guys sharing a booth in the far back. One of them, Peter absentmindedly noted, was wearing a pair of flashy designer sunglasses indoors, swirling his mocha as if it were a wine glass. He didn’t press the matter. The clientele was none of his business, really.
Ten or so minutes later, when his sweeping skills failed him and he ended up dusting the entire length of the counter with cinnamon, Peter really wished Rocket was working the shift with him so he could blackmail the guy into cleaning for him. Instead he was alone and tired, covered in spice and in desperate need of a manly smelling shower.
He was leaning over to grab a rag from the broom closet sized employee’s lounge when he heard the front door bell make its trademark rusty dinging sound, signaling the departure of the final customers.
Peter cranked up the music. He’d lied to Gamora — the entire playlist was Last Christmas on a loop. And he’d only gotten six complaints about it that day, hers included, which he counted as a personal achievement.
/
Peter froze when the bell chimed again. “We’re closed,” he said instinctively, because he’d just seductively dipped his broom dance partner under the counter and he didn’t need anyone to know that.
“Too bad you forgot to flip your sign,” Ronan retorted. “Double espresso. Or, you know what, grab one of those big cups,” he paused, gesturing at the stack of cups on the back wall, “and make me a giant espresso.”
Peter set the broom aside, casually leaning it against the side of the counter as if he hadn’t just engaged in an intense dance off with it. “I don’t think I can do that,” he said slowly. He really didn’t know — he ignored all of Yondu’s memos about the ever changing employee code; because Yondu changed it every other damn day just for the shits, to watch Peter screw up and give Yondu a legitimate reason to cut his already meager pay.
Ronan rolled his eyes. “Then make five tiny espressos and then pour them into a bigger cup.”
Peter considered that for a moment. “That’s not very healthy.”
Ronan was already pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. “Neither is making out with a broom. There’s germs on that shit, Quill.”
Peter ducked his head and got to making the giant espresso.
A few seconds later Ronan looked up from his phone, as if suddenly remembering something he shouldn’t have forgotten. “And a large vanilla latte.”
When Peter slid the two steaming cups across the counter and accepted the credit card from Ronan’s lazily outstretched fingers, he paused, feeling compelled to say, “Are you really gonna drink that? I mean, you’ll be awake for days — ”
He didn’t care for Ronan’s health, not in the slightest, but a thoroughly caffeinated Ronan was a dangerous Ronan, because it gave him ideas.
All Peter got for his concern was an impatient glare. “Good. I have stuff to do.”
He swiped the card and nodded to himself. “Lots of decorating, huh? You don’t seem like the last minute kind of guy, though, I’m surprised.”
The expression on Ronan’s face spoke all volumes of I don’t want to be here, and I especially do not want to be making small talk with you right now. Peter mistook it for boredom. He hated it when people were bored — so he took it upon himself to talk even more then, to entertain them. That, and he simply did not know when to stop.
“Did you go shopping yet?” Peter rambled on, “I’m getting my end of the year paycheck today, hopefully, and then I have to buy and pack all the presents tomorrow to have them ready by Thursday. Between you and me, I’m counting on a raise or a bonus or — something. Though, I have so many people coming over for Christmas and I have no damn idea what to get any of them. Okay, maybe one idea — ”
He stopped short when Ronan stuffed his wallet back into his pocket in one swift move, and turned to leave without a word of goodbye, balancing the two cups in one hand, phone in the other.
Turns out Ronan, much like Gamora and the entirety of the human race, didn’t appreciate Peter’s talkative nature. It left him feeling offended.
/
There was a grunt from the general direction of Peter’s front door as it was roughly pushed open.
“Quill, get that tree out of your ass and help me with these boxes.”
To clarify, there was no tree up anyone’s ass.
Peter jumped down from the stool he’d been standing on to reach the top of his tree, nearly knocking the whole thing over in the process.
Long story short, when Peter had come home from his shift he’d realized he didn’t have enough proper Christmas ornaments in his apartment. He’d resolved the dilemma with one late night call to Rocket. Rocket was a hoarder — whatever you needed he probably had, including various illicit stuff and things. Independence Day fireworks were never a bore when the little guy was supplying.
“I have four strings of lights. Not sure if they work,” Rocket began, shoving one of the boxes at Peter. “There’s a few sets of matching ornaments. One creepy ass Santa figurine. Unfortunately, no star for the top.”
Peter took the box and swayed on his feet, surprised by the weight. “Nah, I got a star. Very nearly just broke my neck getting it up there.”
They entered the tiny living room together. Rocket stopped in his tracks, mouth hanging open in an uncharacteristically shocked manner.
It was understandable, however. The considerable size of the Christmas tree crammed into the small space was something to gape at. Especially considering the ratio of living space to tree space. Needless to say, there was barely any living space left.
Peter noticed his distress. “I told you I ran out of ornaments. We need a big tree if all the presents are to fit under it.”
Rocket shuffled his feet in the universal motion for I didn’t buy any presents yet oops I hope no one finds out.
Peter’s voice cut through Rocket’s reverie. “You gonna help me put these up?”
Which, of course, Rocket took as his cue to leave. “Sorry, can’t. I left a pie in the oven — it’s gonna burn the house down, I’ll bet.”
Peter shot him an incredulous look from behind the branches. “You baked a pie?”
Rocket snorted. “Groot made the pie. I just left it unattended in the oven while he got in the shower. Which is why I should get back before he notices.”
“Good thing he takes long showers.”
Rocked nodded idly. He turned and took a few steps into the hall before pausing and slipping a hand into his pocket.
He dug out a mistletoe plant and rolled it over in his fingers before tossing it in Peter’s direction without warning.
“Hang this up somewhere for shits and giggles,” he suggested. “It’ll be funny.”
The plant hit an unsuspecting Peter in the back of his head. He spun over to see what it was that’d fallen onto the ground at his feet, almost knocking the tree over again. Peter eyed the mistletoe like it was going to jump up and bite him on the nose, then redirected his wary gaze toward Rocket.
“Who’d I use this on, anyway?”
Rocket shrugged in that ambiguous way that made it look like he knew the answer to Peter’s question and was deliberately hiding it. “Unsuspecting visitors,” he said vaguely.
Peter looked unconvinced.
“C’mon, hang it up,” Rocket urged. “I shit you not, this can only end well.”
Peter looked utterly terrified.
/
“It’s below freezing, there’s a blizzard warning on TV,” Nebula leaned against the wall, “and you’re wearing that.”
Her tone wasn’t critical; more so exasperated.
There was silence as Ronan hastily hung his flimsy leather jacket in the hall closet, choosing not to grace her comment with a reply. Instead, he motioned over to the kitchen with his free hand, pointing to the two cardboard cups standing atop the marble counter. “Got you coffee,” he said simply.
Nebula watched him for a moment, half expecting a sudden mood swing for the better, before giving up on the idea and going off to get her coffee.
She plucked the plastic lids off both the cups, trying to identify her own. She eyed the darker beverage for a moment before turning in Ronan’s direction. “Quadruple espresso? You’re staying up again?”
He entered the room sans jacket, in a thin black v-neck (because apparently wearing weather appropriate attire didn’t apply to Ronan, insert comment about his icicle of a heart here) and swung open the fridge door.
“Quintuple,” he corrected, “I have last week’s papers to finish.”
Nebula recapped the coffees and picked hers up. “You say that every week. Every day, even. Take a break.”
She hoped the unspoken it’s Christmas at the end of her sentence didn’t go unnoticed.
Ronan emerged from the fridge with a foil wrapped bundle of leftover pizza in hand. He shut the door and leaned heavily on the counter with a soft sigh. “I’ll get this done tonight and I’ll have the rest of the week off.”
“You know, most people take the rest of this week off no matter how much work they have,” Nebula snapped, impatient, “but do what you will. You always do.”
She turned to go and Ronan let her, closing his eyes and gripping the counter to keep himself from saying something stupid. He had a tendency to let his temper run wild, very wild; a tendency usually resulting in his sleeping on the couch, sometimes leaving the apartment altogether until the sun came back up. It was safer to keep his mouth shut — the best method of avoiding an argument was avoiding speaking altogether.
It’s wasn’t the best of solutions but it made do.
He only opened his eyes when he heard Nebula’s soft footsteps padding back towards the kitchen. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since she’d left. He was tired, hence the many coffees.
She stopped a few feet away from him, without the coffee, which she must have left in their bedroom.
She gave him a weary smile. “At least get a tree. We need a tree. A little tree, even.”
It never failed to amaze Ronan, and stir up a new level of self-hatred on the side, that Nebula constantly gave him the proverbial second chance. Except, in his lowly case, it was probably the thousandth at this point.
He remained silent for a solid minute, trying to decide on what to say, or whether or not to say anything at all.
In the end, he just shook his head, settled for choking out a rare apology. “I’m sorry — ”
And for a moment, he wondered if the words had lost meaning over all the times he’d said them, then winced in surprise when Nebula took a step closer and pulled him into a hug. He waited a few seconds before giving in and letting his head drop onto her shoulder.
“Just go to sleep before it gets light out, hmm?”
Ronan couldn’t trust himself to make that promise, but nodded regardless. It was the little inkling of holiday spirit somewhere deep in his soul that spurred the action, clamped his mouth shut instead of egging on an argument.
/
Rocket gently pushed the apartment door closed behind him, counting on the click of the lock being quiet enough as to not draw Groot’s attention. The loud signing from the shower had ceased, and the silence was deadly.
He kicked his sneakers off with as much grace as he could muster and attempted to tiptoe into the kitchen to check on the pie — where, unsurprisingly enough, he found Groot sitting at the table, leaning over the pile of cards he was decorating. There was glitter everywhere; it really negated the whole point of the shower.
Groot said nothing, which wasn’t very out of the ordinary.
Rocket shifted from foot to foot. “How’s the pie?”
A small cloud of glitter rose from the table when Groot jumped and looked up, as if he honestly hadn’t noticed Rocket come in. Then again, card making was a serious business and it was only typical that he’d pour his whole heart and concentration into the process. The cards came out better each year, so there had to be something to it. And Groot looked cute covered in glitter, but that was no one’s business.
“It’s fine,” Groot replied, “smells good.”
“Quill needed — ”
Rocket’s attempt at wriggling out of the blame was interrupted — Groot displaying an unusual talkativeness this particular evening.
“I heard you answer the phone, you know? And you can’t whisper to save your life,” he paused, watching Rocket pretend to act casual, before adding, “It’s fine. I’m not mad — I just took it out a few minutes ago.”
Rocket stole a glance at the still steaming pie cooling off on a metal rack on top of the stove — and the five other pies littering the entirety of the counter space beside it.
He allowed himself a laugh. “Hell, if this one burned you’d still have the rest to take to Quill’s. I’d say five is enough.”
Groot shook his head at that, though his gaze was focused on the intricate swirly snowflakes he was drawing. “Believe me, it’s not.”
“You’re as bad as your mom.”
Rocket got glitter flicked at his face for his trouble. It made sense that with the entire kitchen being dusted with a thin layer of it, Rocket needed some sparkle as well. There was probably glitter in the pies, but that was inevitable — holiday cheer never killed nobody.
“Unless my memory fails me, you ate two entire apple pies at my parents’ last year,” Groot said, “And then you even let my mom hug you because you thought if you got on her good side she’d bake you some more for the road.”
Rocket struggled for a moment as he pulled his hoodie over his head, the look on his face extremely offended. “Excuse me, I’d never let anyone touch me. Let alone hug me. Not even for a year’s supply of pie.”
With that, he dropped the hoodie onto the least glitter infested vacant part of the counter and pulled open a cupboard in search of a serious dinner, like instant noodles, or whatever college students feasted on these days. He thanked his lucky stars that all the good food was on the lowest shelf — he was in no mood to fetch a stool to stand on.
Grabbing a small carton of pasta, he turned around, only to find Groot looming over him with a pile of envelopes in hand and an innocent smile on his face. He was tall enough to block out the light of the lamp overhead, which would have looked like an intimidating eclipse of all that was nice in the world if he wasn’t also covered in glitter.
“I’m wearing pajamas. Sorry. Can’t go outside,” Groot explained. “You gotta go stick these in the mailbox.”
Rocket pouted.
“Also, I’m covered in glitter.”
That was no excuse, in Rocket’s mind. “You’re always covered in some degree of glitter.”
Despite his begrudging tone, he set the carton of noodles down at the edge of the counter and grabbed his hoodie again, then took the envelopes from Groot’s outstretched hand.
He was halfway out the door when Groot stopped him.
“And wear this.”
Groot was holding out an old, worn Santa hat. Rocket considered making a run for it. Or maybe burning the hat with sheer force of will.
He settled with, “It’ll mess up my hair.”
Unwilling to take any of that shit, Groot huffed and readjusted his grip on the hat before leaning over and sticking it on Rocket’s head before he could react.
He took a step back and admired his work — one adorably festive hat on the head of one particularly murderous-looking boy.
“Your hair always looks good,” he added, because Rocket was a sucker for praise and compliments, no matter the occasion. And when all else failed, promise food. “I’ll make you your noodles, don’t worry.”
And Rocket was out the door.
/
Peter shot up from his bed, head reeling with the realization that someone else was in his apartment. First thought — the ghost of Christmas past — a thought quickly dismissed on the grounds that he was a nice enough guy who most certainly did not need any lessons on proper holiday celebration. He was the fucking king of celebrating.
He attempted to roll out from under his covers in the most silent, subtle way possible, maybe grab his guitar on the way to the kitchen to use as a makeshift weapon — when Gamora poked her head in though his bedroom door.
“Good, you’re awake,” she said quickly. “I made waffles.”
Honestly, Peter should have deduced the situation by the smell alone — any self-respecting potential home invader wouldn’t have chosen to whip up a batch of waffles before taking to robbing the place. Plus, it’s not like Peter owned anything particularly worth stealing. Except that one baseball card he kept at the very bottom of his underwear drawer, but no one had to know.
He stumbled into the kitchen after taking his time picking out a Christmas Eve appropriate outfit consisting of black jeans and a band t-shirt.
“Is this your idea of a present?” he asked Gamora, who was standing at the far end of his crappy kitchenette with a whisk in hand, wielding it as one would a weapon.
She ignored that, pouring some batter into the waffle maker — movements quick and precise, but Peter could tell she was rolling her eyes internally.
“This is my idea of making sure you live to see the sunrise tomorrow,” she said finally. “When’s the last time you ate a breakfast that wasn’t leftover bagels from the café?”
Peter couldn’t remember.
“Like I said,” Gamora continued smugly, “you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself. I found a pair of dirty socks under the rug in the bathroom. Also, there’s mistletoe hanging over the front door. What’s up with that?”
Her tone shifted slightly somewhere towards the end of the sentence. Peter couldn’t quite interpret the sudden change, but his heart rate sped up and made his insides jittery.
“Rocket,” Peter explained quickly. “He — I don’t know, really. I feel like there’s some master plan he’s not letting me in on. He was being all vague.”
Gamora materialized a plate out of somewhere (she sometimes knew Peter’s apartment better than he himself did) and forked two waffles onto it before handing it to Peter.
“You’re out of chocolate syrup, your caramel was gross and expired, maple syrup is already on the table.” Gamora told him, like she owned the place and she knew it, though it seemed to Peter like she was using the authoritative comments to mask the fact that she needed a change of topic. Leave it to suspicious mistletoe to thicken the tension.
He shoveled a forkful of waffle into his mouth, maple syrup dripping everywhere. He didn’t bother with manners as he spoke with his mouth full, “Look, I can’t tell if you’re stressing about the mistletoe thing — ”
“ — I’m really not — ”
“ — but I’m sure Rocket’s doing this on purpose — inducing paranoia. He’s probably just trying to lure Groot into a mistletoe infested trap tomorrow. I think we’re safe. I don’t think he would actually hurt us — too badly.”
Gamora wasn’t going to stand for the topic at hand.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
And that was the end of that.
/
Ronan awoke around noon to the mildly alarming sight of Nebula dragging a Christmas tree through the front door. And it wasn’t that he was rude enough to sit by and watch her struggle; he was just too stunned to react. That went without mentioning how he’d barely slept — the tree would’ve knocked him over, no doubt. All things considered, Nebula’s chances of survival were higher than his own.
When she finally caught him watching her with bleary eyes, she fixed him with an unreadable expression and waited for a comment — waited for constructive criticism along the lines of why is there a tree in my house?
Instead, Ronan found himself saying, “I could have given you a lift, you know? You didn’t have to lug that thing over here all by yourself.”
He mentally scolded himself for sounding tired and unreliable. He then realized he’d fallen asleep covered in the papers he’d been reading over last night — he must have looked just about as tired and unreliable as he sounded.
“I heard you walking around after four, microwaving odd early-morning dinners — figured you’d be dead asleep ‘til late afternoon,” she explained, leaning the tree against the hallway wall to kick off her boots. “And by that time all the trees would have been gone and you’d be too groggy to get off that couch.”
Ronan tried to protest but his vision blacked out for a few seconds right then, as if the universe was on a mission to prove him wrong.
“It’s Christmas Eve, Ronan. There’s no fairness in the world anymore. I almost punched the guy who thought he’d get to this thing before me,” Nebula said, motioning to the tree behind her.
“I’d have punched him for you.”
Nebula snorted. “Now, let’s not propagate violence this holiday season. Besides,” she continued, smirk in place, “you don’t even own a coat. I shouldn’t let you set foot outside.”
Ronan huffed. “The car has heating.”
“Too bad the tree farm doesn’t have a drive thru window.” Nebula was using her serious tone — to signal that she was right and therefore there was no use arguing with her any further. “I’m going to take a shower; you eat something before you pass out, then set that thing up by the window.”
/
Nothing at all could have prepared Nebula for the sight of Ronan tangled in a thin string of white Christmas lights. And if someone had told her in the past that this was a sight she would one day have the luxury of beholding, she would have laughed in their face.
And yet.
“Where’d you get the lights?” she asked, making casual conversation, trying her very hardest not to crack a smile. Her damp her dripped over her shoulders, but she couldn’t be bothered to tear her eyes away from the spectacle.
Ronan looked up at her, head held high in an attempt to look majestic even with the tangles of lights trailing around his arms. He looked very festive.
“Had ‘em in a box in the closet, apparently. Along with this,” he trailed off, unsteadily leaning over to the couch to grab something — said something turning out to be a brightly colored pair of reindeer antlers attached to a fleece headband.
Nebula nodded in consideration. A beat passed, then, “Put them on.”
Ronan gave her his best are you fucking kidding me glare before dropping the antlers back onto the couch in protest, nearly tripping over the tangled ball of lights at his feet while he was at it.
He sighed in resignation, mulled the whole situation over in his mind, then swallowed his pride and flashed some puppy eyes. “Please help.”
/
Peter was beginning to suspect that Gamora knew something he didn’t.
She trailed off certain topics, avoided certain conversations, got all awkward when there was nothing at all to be stressed about — it was all very uncharacteristic for her. And while she thought Peter didn’t notice, he did. He wasn’t as oblivious as most people made him out to be. Though, he couldn’t seem to figure out what was bugging her, which in turn bugged him.
He continued to contemplate the topic on his way home from the mall, when his phone had died and he could no longer drown his thoughts out with music. The bags of gifts he carried weighed him down like a great metaphor for his state of mind — feeling like he was slowly being crushed to death by the great unknown. He wanted to know what was getting on Gamora’s nerves and he wanted to know why he cared so much. He ended up blaming it on brainfreeze and his general reluctance to wear a hat.
When Peter pushed open the door to his apartment, he barely had the time to cross the threshold before he found himself reeling back in surprise. Taking a hesitant step backward, he glanced at the number plastered onto the door to make sure he’d entered his own place. It was, in fact, 23C, mistletoe above the door and all, and yet there was a substantial lack of dirty laundry on the hallway floor. The pizza cartons from last week, the mismatched socks, the multitude of dead leaves from Peter’s many, many plants — all gone.
Quietly dropping the bags onto the floor by the wall, Peter shut the door and turned the lock.
The living room slash kitchenette area was equally disastrous. The dishes were washed, dried and deposited into their respective slots in the few cupboards above the sink. The weird spaghetti sauce stain was gone from the surface of the stove, as well as the grease smudges on the edge of the counter.
Peter stared in dismay at the empty table, where he’d kept his empty yogurt cup tower and took a short moment to wonder what kind of person would break in to steal empty yogurt cups. What kind of person would pick a lot to wash the dishes —
His thoughts were interrupted by the click of the bathroom door. Gamora stepped out in nothing but a towel, furiously attempting to brush the tangles from her damp hair (everyone told her the pink dye would fry her hair, she ignored them).
Peter looked between her and the neatly vacuumed carpet and finally put two and two together.
“What did you do?”
It wasn’t even a shout. Just a soft, helpless ghost of a whisper.
Gamora paused the aggressive hair brushing to look at Peter like he was the stupidest human being in existence — a look she graced him with quite frequently. That, and she looked flustered at being caught fresh out of the shower, which Peter found adorable. And then he wondered where his brain had gotten that last part.
“There were bugs in your yogurt cups,” she explained quickly, forcing her blush to subside. “I don’t even know what kind of bugs they were and I had a 98% in AP biology.”
Peter was near tears, by the looks of it.
“So, once I got those infested things out of the way, I figured, why not check for roaches or something in the rest of the apartment,” Gamora went on. “Tidy up for the party tomorrow and all. Did you really want to subject your guests to this pigsty? Would you do that to your friends? To Groot?”
Peter wondered why the hell he’d agreed to let Gamora hang around his apartment while he went shopping in the first place. Her sweet smile was always so convincing, though beneath it lurked the conniving malice. She meant well, but Peter wanted his yogurt cups back.
“I — I don’t know where anything is now,” he sputtered. “All my pencils were stashed in between the couch cushions, where are they now? My socks were always in the hall, where are those? My books aren’t on the carpet, my hoodie’s not on the bar chair — ”
“Your hoodie’s where it’s supposed to be — your closet.”
“What closet?”
Gamora exhaled slowly, as if she were trying to talk herself down from attempting homicide. All of this was really for Peter’s own good — he deserved a little cleanliness in his life.
It then dawned on her that she was wearing nothing but a towel; and following some hasty excuses, she half-sprinted back into the bathroom around the corner.
/
Around ten pm that night, Peter was struck with the horrifying realization that he hadn’t prepared (read: bought) any food for the party he was hosting the next day.
So he’d called Rocket, who had shot an expectant look at Groot, only to be leveled with a truly demonic glare. Enough was enough — and Rocket had figured it had something to do with the heaping mountain of homemade pies already scattered on all the counters. It’d turned out Groot had made some extras for his neighbors as well, purely out of the goodness of his heart. It made Rocket sick. But it also made him want to kiss Groot. The complexities of relationships never failed to make his head spin.
In the end, the Missing Food Problem was resolved with a call to Drax, who, as it turned out, had forgotten about the party altogether and therefore had no presents prepared. He’d proposed a compromise — he could skip gifts this year in exchange for playing caterer. Which meant there would be lots of pizza and breadsticks — not very Christmassy, but Peter had to admit he would’ve gotten the same — students on a budget and all, maybe with the exception of Gamora and her trust fund from daddy Thanos (that she avoided dipping into if she could help it, but still).
/
When Gamora left Peter’s apartment that evening, having packed her share of presents, leaving them under the tree (it was shocking that she trusted Peter not to peek, really), Peter had walked her to the door, which had resulted in an awkward staring contest with the mistletoe plant. Gamora lost — cleared her throat at no one in particular and left, hoisting her bag over her shoulder and speed walking to the elevator.
Peter had a sudden overwhelming suspicion that maybe Rocket had intended — nah, whatever.
/
The morning of December 25th, Gamora woke up to find even more snow had fallen overnight. She wondered what she’d done to deserve this. She was a good person, more or less, and she didn’t deserve to have to walk through multiple feet of cold, white hell.
By the time she forced herself to tumble out of bed and get dressed, she’d counted at least five weather warning forecasts from the television she’d switched on in the background. That and approximately a dozen stupid infomercials, which she detested and Peter adored.
With everything else gone to shit (here meaning the weather, the weather and, right, the weather), at least her building had an indoor garage. Unlike Peter, she had the much needed luxury of not having to shovel snow off her car roof before being able to drive off.
Though it didn’t make the drive any more pleasant. This particular drive was never something Gamora enjoyed.
She arrived in front of the vaguely familiar brick building sometime before noon, when the roads were already flooded with holiday traffic. She idly wondered if she’d make it to Peter’s on time with the streets blocked like that, before stepping out of her car, grabbing the lone gift bag sitting on the passenger seat to take with her.
The lobby of the building was disgustingly minimalistic, the elevator disgustingly chrome and — she knocked and the door to the apartment opened — the resident disgustingly Ronan.
He gave Gamora a cold once-over, pausing on the present she was holding.
“Aw, is that for me?” he offered.
Gamora hated him with every fiber of her being. “I’m not getting you a present, Ronan.”
He scoffed. “Good. I didn’t get you anything, either.”
“Is Nebula here?”
Ronan seemed put off by the fact that she was in no mood to play games. He loved every opportunity to mess with someone’s head. Instead, he made a grand gesture of stepping aside to allow Gamora entry into the apartment, where Nebula was already waiting at the end of the hall, curious as to what was keeping Ronan so long.
Ronan shut the front door behind his guest and walked past her, past Nebula (who shot him a warning look), and into the bedroom to avoid friendly social contact with people who disliked him. The feeling was very mutual.
“He’s an asshole,” Gamora told her sister, in lieu of greeting. She found herself saying that to Nebula almost every time they met, really.
Nebula shrugged. “Kind of.”
Their relationship was still in the process of being patched up, what with their father playing favorites and Gamora’s deep hatred for her sister’s boyfriend — but efforts were being made, as slow as the process seemed.
“I can’t stay long,” Gamora said quickly. “I have — a thing. Prior engagement. Sorry.”
Nebula nodded in understanding and led Gamora to the kitchen, offering something to drink along the way. Gamora declined, unwilling to drink Ronan’s tea in Ronan’s kitchen in Ronan’s apartment. She hated the place — hated how impersonal and cold it always appeared, like a luxury hotel with little to no furnishings. She was sincerely surprised to see a tastefully decorated tree standing in the corner by the window; she wouldn’t have pegged Ronan to have a single festive bone in his body. Or a soul, but that was a different matter.
Switching on the electric kettle, Nebula tossed a tea bag into a mug for herself and turned her attention back to her sister.
Gamora, usually so eloquent, couldn’t find the right words.
She settled on, “Got you something,” as she held out the small bag in Nebula’s direction. Nebula hesitated before accepting it with a tentative, “Thanks”.
There was a pause; for a moment the only sound in the room was the boiling water. Gamora almost wished it was a teapot, so the wailing would rise and rise until it hit a crescendo and broke the tension.
“Hold on a sec,” Nebula muttered. She took her present with her as she left Gamora alone in the kitchen to head in the direction of the bedroom.
Gamora didn’t move, instead taking a moment to look at the apartment in more detail. It was even worse than she remembered; as if with every passing day the walls sucked the very life from the interior and its occupants.
She could hear quiet conversation from the bedroom and she caught herself wondering if Ronan was as much of an asshole to Nebula as he was to everyone else. Possibly not, though Gamora had trouble imagining him with a real smile on his face. He was the epitome of heartless and insincere, and god, she hated him.
Nebula reappeared a moment later with a small, neatly wrapped box in one hand. She stopped a few feet from Gamora, remaining cautious despite their attempts to reconcile.
“Wasn’t sure you’d even come,” she began, holding out the apparent gift. “But I figured I should be civil and get something anyway.”
Gamora failed to suppress a smile. “That’s very civil of you. Thanks.”
Nebula exhaled, then shot a look over her shoulder. “I’m guessing Ronan already told you he’s not getting any presents for people who’d try and poison him given the chance?”
Gamora shrugged, considering the idea. “More or less. I’m not offended, don’t worry.”
Minutes later, when Nebula walked Gamora back to the door, Gamora was struck with a sudden, really stupid idea.
“There’s a party — thing — at Quill’s tonight. If you and asshole want to drop by, that’d be okay, I guess — ”
Nebula looked genuinely taken aback by the proposition but nodded hesitantly. Then, in a very uncharacteristic gesture, she stepped forward and pulled her sister into a hug, which was equal parts awkward and endearing. But she figured a hug would have to take place eventually and, hey, Christmas only happened once a year. And she’d missed Gamora, not that she’d say that part out loud.
The moment Nebula closed the door after her sister, Ronan hollered a definite no from the bedroom, because he’d been eavesdropping, and he sure as hell wasn’t spending Christmas with Gamora and her asshole crew. Nebula figured as much.
/
“Why are there so many lights everywhere?” Gamora sounded utterly terrified. Despite the traffic, she was still the first to arrive. Rocket had called minutes earlier to announce that he and Groot would be an hour or so late due to Unforeseen Pie Issues. Peter deduced it had more to do with the fact that they probably didn’t get out of bed until noon.
Peter grinned at Gamora’s outraged wide eyes. He was very proud of his lighting arrangements.
Once Gamora discarded her coat and kicked her boots off by the door they made their way to the kitchen, where Peter had already prepared two steaming mugs of tea. Gamora wholeheartedly appreciated the gesture. Her fingers were frozen with the aftershocks of spending a whole ten minutes in close proximity to Ronan. The snowstorm wasn’t half as bad.
“Did you go to your sister’s?”
She glanced up at Peter’s unexpected question. He took an instinctive step back because her glare was the stuff of his nightmares.
“ — Sorry, it’s just, you look pissed,” he explained quickly. “I figured — ”
Gamora tried her best to soften her expression. She shook her head. “It’s not Nebula. We’re fine.”
“Ronan?”
“Ronan.”
They drank their tea in silence.
“Do you want some toast?” Peter offered offhandedly.
Gamora shrugged; she couldn’t recall having eaten anything other than some chewable kids’ vitamins earlier that day. As much as she nagged Peter to take on some healthier habits, she herself lagged behind every now and again.
“Did you know Walgreens doesn’t deliver to my zip code?” Peter went on, rambling. “I wanted to restock on peanut butter and Nutella and all that jazz but turns out I’d actually have to walk to the store.”
Gamora frowned. “It’s literally around the corner. What’s the big deal?”
Peter waved his arms enthusiastically. “Exactly my point! Why don’t they deliver if they’re right around the corner?”
“Because you need the exercise,” Gamora told him, very seriously, which shut Peter up for a few moments, until the toaster went off and he jumped a few inches into the air with a startled yelp. Gamora just watched him calmly, either annoyed or thoroughly amused.
Peter puffed up his chest in what he considered to be a tough-looking motion and proceeded to butter the toast in what could only be described as a very regal manner. He didn’t bother with plates, instead littering the countertop with crumbs, and Gamora had to breathe to ten and remind herself that strangulation was hardly appropriate on Christmas Day.
He later insisted that they watch infomercials until Rocket and Groot showed up. Gamora reluctantly followed Peter onto the couch, but didn’t bother mentioning that the branches of the pine tree obscured her view of the screen. She ate her toast in much desired peace.
When the doorbell finally rang, both Peter and Gamora got to their feet and headed towards the door, much like an old married couple going out to greet their guests — a fact that Rocket immediately noticed when the door was opened for him. The next thing he spotted — wow, such a surprise — was the mistletoe above the door. He shrugged at Groot like the innocent bystander he apparently was, then stepped up onto his toes for a kiss, Groot meeting him halfway because Rocket was short and maybe Christmas wasn’t really the best time to watch the poor guy struggle.
Peter shot a relieved look at Gamora. “See? His master plan. Doesn’t involve either of us.”
Rocket grinned out of nowhere, all teeth and malice. He stuffed a hand into his back pocket and pulled out another bundle of mistletoe, promptly throwing it at Peter and Gamora. “Kiss, bitches.”
Gamora stared down at the plant that’d bounced harmlessly onto the floor like it was about to catch fire. Peter just raised an eyebrow at Rocket. “It appears I was mistaken.”
Rocket waltzed into the apartment, followed by Groot and his pies, which Rocket, the considerate guy, wasn’t helping him carry. “There’s plenty more where that came from, my good friend.”
It took Gamora a few seconds to catch the implication. “No,” she snapped (while blushing furiously), “no, no, no. Why would you suggest that?”
Groot sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no way out of this.”
Rocket pranced past Gamora, then Peter, and approached the tree to deposit his and Groot’s presents under the bottom branches. There were more bags and boxes than Peter had anticipated — he should have arranged a bigger tree. Though, that would’ve forced him to move all his furniture to his bedroom, which was already crammed to hell and back.
The television was switched off and the radio switched on, playing one of Peter’s infamous mixtapes (the version without the Last Christmas loop).
“Where’s the food?” Rocket demanded.
Drax was late. Then again, Drax had no sense of time or responsibility and often arrived whenever he pleased. Especially to classes, and scheduled events.
Ironically enough, there was a knock on the door just seconds after Rocket voiced his complaint.
Peter shot up to open it, returning into the living room with Drax trailing behind him with a leaning tower of pizzas in his arms. Rocket made a choking noise — pizza made him emotional.
Peter carried the complimentary breadsticks and dipping sauces — the full Pizza Hut experience, ideal for everyone’s Christmas party needs.
There was enough food for everyone to get their own pizza — except for the single one with Hawaiian toppings that Peter and Gamora reached for at the same time. Upon their deciding to share, Rocket laughed and plucked another mistletoe plant out of somewhere. He tosseed it onto their pizza. “Free bonus topping for you guys.”
Gamora narrowed her eyes at Drax, wondering if Rocket had dragged him into this bullshit plan from the very start.
Sometime after his fourth slice, Rocket cleared his throat and expectantly waved the piece of pizza he was holding, asking the question everyone had been thinking for the past half hour or so. “So, where’s the booze?”
/
In a tragic turn of events, no one had remembered to buy the booze. Rocket had actually yelled at Peter for failing as a host, after which Peter practically sprinted into the kitchenette to check his fridge for potential alcoholic beverages. He returned with a single bottle of beer and everyone groaned.
“It’s enough to go around,” he’d said. And maybe it would have been, if Rocket hadn’t snatched it from his grasp and popped the lid off, claiming it as his own. No one bothered to oppose him.
/
Now, Ronan wasn’t a total bastard. He was raised in a good house, with parents with high expectations instilling common courtesy into his very being before he could even walk.
Hence, the texts he sent off to his closest friends, for the sake of upholding tradition, and strengthening ties with those he held dear.
to: Gamora [8:32 PM] you’re not as bad as the rest of them. doesn’t mean i like you. happy christmas
to: Quill [8:48 PM] u can’t make coffee for shit
to: Gamora [9:44 PM] for the record nebula isn’t forcing me to be polite. i’m just nice like that
And when Nebula caught a glimpse of his message history over his shoulder, she snatched his phone straight out of his hand and replaced it with a plainly wrapped box. Spread joy, not hate, was the intended message. She’d have no qualms about berating him for it once they’d finished celebrating.
/
Rocket ripped the colorful paper apart to reveal a red hand knitted sweater embroidered with a giant white reindeer.
“Jeez, Groot, this is the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen,” he concluded. Then, “I love it.”
Everyone paused what they were doing to watch Rocket struggle to put it on. It was huge and he was tiny — it was interesting to watch him disappear amongst the folds of red yarn.
There were only two presents left under the tree, both small and square.
Gamora waited a moment before taking the one labeled with her name. The sound of tearing paper echoed in the room. It was surprisingly quiet — the only other sounds were the soft music from the radio and Drax’s snores. He was distressingly disinterested in the whole evening.
Peter watched with anticipation as Gamora peeled back the final layer of wrapping paper on his gift to reveal an old cassette. Gamora smiled, immediately flipping it over to read the tracklist. It was a tradition of theirs — Peter would make mixtapes containing collections of songs that no one other than the two of them seemed to consider related. Or, inside joke mixtapes, as Peter sometimes called them. The gifts went with the vintage cassette player he’d gotten her years ago, and it was all too sweet to handle.
She turned to properly thank Peter, and was interrupted by Rocket, who waggled his eyebrows in the most suggestive manner he could muster.
“Open that one now,” he urged, pointing at the tiny box decorated with an oversized neon yellow bow. It was incredibly tasteless, it was from him and it was addressed to both Peter and Gamora.
Gamora buried her face in her hands.
Peter just shook his head.
“C’mon, that’s rude,” Rocket complained, “I worked my ass off to get you guys that and you’re being ungrateful jerks.”
Gamora clenched her jaw in a way that would have made her look threatening if Rocket wasn’t already cracking up internally — and externally: he never did anything halfway. She reached over with zero grace at all and picked up the box, unravelling the ribbon and pulling the lid off.
She handed it to Peter for inspection and he, in turn, made the most exasperated sound Rocket had heard in his entire life.
A tiny piece of mistletoe lay at the bottom of the box, tied with a bright red decorative ribbon. It was, in Rocket’s mind, the best gift he could have gotten the two of them.
Peter didn’t see it that way. “Look, pal, I don’t know what you’re — ”
Peter’s words were cut off by Gamora’s lips, which were suddenly on his and then everything fell deathly quiet, aside from Rocket’s single wheeze.
To top it all off, the radio chose that moment to jam, as if on cue; the silence hanging heavily in the room.
Peter felt the temperature rising — either on his face or in the room, maybe both. It only got worse when Gamora pulled back and they were subjected to Rocket’s victorious slow clap.
“Nice,” Rocket said, because he had no filter or sense of propriety.
Groot suddenly disappeared to wash the dishes. Or so he claimed, because the cups they’d used were plastic and most certainly not reusable, as were the paper plates. He cleared his throat no less than six times from the kitchen before Rocket got the hint and scrambled up to leave the room. Drax continued snoring. It was hopelessly romantic.
Peter was certain his face had gone red. Thankfully, he always had the option of blaming it on the glimmering reflection of the lights upon the tree.
“So, uh,” he began eloquently, “ — sure showed him, huh?”
Gamora stared at him expectantly, as if what he’d said wasn’t enough and she was patiently waiting for more. There was no underlying mischief in her gaze this time around; all foolery gone and replaced with tentative seriousness.
“You think he’ll drop the whole mistletoe thing now?” Peter went on. “Like, now that he got what he wanted — what? What is it?”
The last part was directed at Gamora’s quickly deflating expression. Peter felt like there was a piece of the puzzle he was still missing. He looked over Gamora’s shoulder to find Groot gesticulating aggressively in a chaotic way that Peter couldn’t quite understand until an impatient Rocket gently pushed Groot out of the way and settled for miming the classic you, her, kissy face gestures.
“Oh,” Peter said intelligently, turning his full attention back to Gamora, who looked equal parts pissed off and amused, most likely having seen the entirety of Rocket and Groot’s game of charades reflected in the window.
There was some rustling in the hall and the door clicked open, then shut, leaving the two of them alone in the apartment with a snoring, oblivious Drax, who didn’t count as an onlooker. Rocket’s master plan was clearly in play.
“You — you never said anything,” Peter muttered stupidly.
“Well, that would have been dumb,” Gamora finally said. “Can you imagine how idiotic I would have sounded? Hey, Quill, I like you but everyone and their mother knows you don’t feel the same way. Okay, bye, let’s carry on with our regularly scheduled lives.”
Peter frowned, blinked a few times and shook his head — all very poised and elegant.
“What, what, no,” he managed. “Where the hell did you get that idea? Of course I — I mean — you know, oh, fuck this — ”
Peter Quill sucked with words and that left him with no other option than to lean in and pull Gamora in for another kiss. He hoped that got his message across.
/
“How much should I charge for this, though?” Rocket wondered aloud.
He and Groot were standing in the corridor, right outside Peter’s apartment, shivering and regretting not having grabbed their jackets whilst making their swift escape. Though, huddling for warmth was a suitable alternative.
Rocket was considering the idea of opening a matchmaking business. Groot was attempting to talk him out of it.
“You can’t throw mistletoe at people all year round,” Groot reminded him. “This is why small businesses fail, you know — you don’t plan everything out, you don’t test the waters before taking the leap.”
“Ha,” Rocket said, “you doubt me. I know methods you haven’t considered in your wildest dreams. I am truly a force to be reckoned with.”
Groot stared at him, unimpressed.
“What?” Rocket snapped.
There was a shrug. “I mean, the mistletoe was my idea. So, really, you’ve accomplished nothing.”
With that realization, Rocket fished out yet another bundle of the plant and threw it at Groot, hitting him square in the forehead.
“Well, merry fucking Christmas to you, too.”