Chapter 3
Gamora lies on top of her duvet on the bed, sleepwear still neatly packed in her bag. Her breathing is unsteady and her heartbeat quickened. Every few minutes or so, she feels her hand involuntarily move towards her hip, where her sword rests — almost as if to check if the Godslayer is still there. Her Godslayer.
The duvet is clenched in her first, but she’s not too frustrated to show restraint and manages to not rip the material. She feels tears pricking her eyelids but clenches her jaw to refrain from making any noise.
She’s not exactly sure why she’s crying. Yes, she’s frustrated, but not at Peter. She’s frustrated at herself — but it’s much easier to redirect that to him.
Her cheeks have a flush of dark green on them that she cannot seem to identify until one of her hands moves up to her hair. She tries to twirl a strand around her finger, but it gets caught in a knot.
That makes her lose all self control and she lets out a sob, loud enough that she knows Peter is able to hear. She feels a burning shame running through her. It had started with the Godslayer, the way it had been cared for and was fueled by the state of her hair.
Gamora loves her hair, takes pride in it, even. She always carries herself with confidence, false or genuine, but it’s rarely ever combined with pride. She’s proud of how far she’s come, and what she’s accomplished for a great deal, but she cannot remember the last time she was truly proud of who she was.
Her hair is something her people have cherished for as long as they’ve existed. She vaguely remembers her parents telling her stories about it, going back all the way throughout Zen-Whoberi history. The black hair that ends in deep pinkish, red curls. Something only carried by her people.
Her hand reaches further into her hair, until she reaches right behind her left ear. Another sob wrecks her body, and she tugs at her hair so hard it burns her scalp. She groans from the pain, both mentally and physically. The absence of her braid so painfully familiar that it makes her want to scream.
That braid was another Zen-Whoberi tradition that she cherished deeply and has followed ever since she was little. The ornaments adorning her hair represented her people, her true home.
Ever since she joined the Ravagers, her hair’s condition has dropped drastically — so much so that even her curls are gone. Her hair had even looked better during her time with Thanos, but she bitterly tries to not admit that. She would rather her hair look like this, than admit anything with Thanos was better.
Her sobs have turned into hiccups as she tries to control her breathing. She tugs harder at her hair, the physical pain momentarily replacing her mental pain. It ends up awakening a frustration in her that has become achingly familiar during the time she’s spent with Peter.
Gamora has felt jealous before, but it was rather envy. She envied the lives others lived, the family they had, the love they received — she envied them.
With Peter, it’s different. She’s jealous of… herself. Her other self. More specifically, the love he has for her. He’s cleaning her Godslayer, while hers is strapped on her thigh. Dirty, chunky and clearly in need of great care.
She’s dead, yet she’s still the most precious thing in the universe to him.
Somewhere far away, she knows that Peter has shown her a flash of that love whenever she’s been with him. She’s forced to face the truth here and, while unfamiliar, the love in his eyes is so present anyone would notice.
At the same time, he’s also just gotten angry at her again. Angry at her for not being her. Just like she is.
Her breath hitches when she hears footsteps getting closer, followed by a voice calling out her name so soft she’s not even sure she’s heard it.
She recognizes Peter’s voice, though, and judging by the grogginess of it he’d either been falling asleep or already there before she’d woken him up. She doesn’t want to think about the third option, the one she can so visibly imagine judging by the state he was in after she left him.
Gamora figures he must be aware of the limits of her enhanced hearing. His voice is so quiet, he probably barely hears it himself. Soft enough for her to hear only, almost as if he’s guarding her from the world outside.
“Please tell me you’re okay.” He begs.
Some part of her wants to run up to him, but she’s not sure what would happen after. Possibly a hug, or maybe a more gentle yet fleeting touch.
That scenario would require her actually opening the door, though. Something that means he will see her mess — meaning both her, and his current appearance, caused by the pain she’s been bringing him.
Gamora is a coward. Perhaps not his Gamora, but she definitely is. She’s been feeling it ever since she left Thanos. Right now is just further proof of her opinion.
She’s running from him, from everything that comes with him. The pain, the ache, the longing, the love — the feeling of being wanted. Being cherished. Gamora is worth no such thing, she’s precious to nothing but the death she carries with her.
She denies him an answer and stays unmoving. She’s too focused on controlling her breathing to notice Peter’s, but the creak of the wooden floor as he takes a step closer to her door rings through her ears.
For a moment, she considers challenging him. A challenge in a way of respecting her boundaries and space, regardless of his own interest. She doesn’t do it, however. No one has ever held that sort of love for her, she prefers to not be confronted with that once again.
Deep down, she knows that is not what she’s afraid of being confronted with, but she pushes that back down far into her thoughts.
Instead, she now chooses to focus on his breathing. She finds it to be calming, and feels her own slowly match his’. She’s relieved he’s not in this room with her, because that would result in him knowing she was doing this. He’d be able to see the effect he has on her, just as Nebula had.
Peter is stubborn, but Gamora is determined to beat him. It’s been several minutes that he’s been standing at her door, most likely waiting for her to allow him in. He’s giving her time and space, both of which she’s returning in a way he hasn’t meant for it to.
Eventually, she hears hesitant steps walk back to his own room. He sighs deflatedly, loud enough for her to hear. She hates the way it makes her feel. The shame from before returning even stronger.
It’s not that Gamora is unfamiliar with shame. Her shame towards others for being a daughter of Thanos was easy to cover with confidence. People feared her too much to shame her.
She would feel shame towards her parents, and often found herself wondering what they would think of her if they were to see her now. That shame would evolve into one she also felt towards all her people, her culture. The way she barely remembers anything about Zen-Whoberi, and is therefore only able to carry their legacy out in a near insignificant way.
Her parents are gone, though. The only shame she would receive from them came from dreams or her imagination. Peter is a different story.
Peter is here and he has known a better version of her. The old her. The one who did have her red curls and braid with ornaments, whose Godslayer was nicely cleaned and was so loved and happy.
She feels ridiculous. Concerning herself with her hair was truly foolish and a privilege she’s never had. Her people are gone, she reminds herself. These days it’s rare for anyone to even have heard of Zen-Whoberi, let alone recognize her for one. She’s the daughter of Thanos forever, whether he’s there or not. Feeling sentimental about legacies and home is something she’d been forced to say goodbye to in her younger years with Thanos, so why did being around Peter make it so hard for her to continue this?
If she listens carefully, she’s able to hear soft snores coming from his room after another hour or so. Gamora pretends she didn’t notice the sniffles before, or the fact that he obviously cried himself to sleep. She also pretends her heart doesn’t hurt from any of these thoughts.
___________
When morning comes, Gamora has had yet another near sleepless night. She had fallen asleep for a short while before dawn, but had woken up when she heard movement coming from the room beside her. It was already light out, and while she wasn’t quite familiar with Terran timezones, she’s pretty confident it was still fairly early.
She shoots up when she hears another voice that is not Peter’s and suddenly remembers his grandfather. Their voices are too far for her to be able to make out any words, which is certainly not helping her feel more at ease.
Neither of them have come to her room yet, which does feel as a relief. She’s not sure if Peter was actually convinced last night that she fell asleep after he had come by, or if he merely accepted her rejection — regardless, he seemed to have taken the hint that she wished to be alone.
Gamora resigns herself back to bed, not seeing another option as going outside the room would mean meeting with Peter and his grandfather. She wonders if Peter is talking about her right now, or if he had even informed his grandfather of her presence. Though, she notices that Peter isn’t doing much talking. His grandfather’s voice more present than his.
She’s lost track of time before she hears a door close — the front door, she assumes. The familiar silence from the previous night has returned, and she only partially welcomes it. The other part of her wonders about Peter’s whereabouts nearly right away. Maybe he had left her alone, which she can’t even fault him for after last night.
The stairs creak and she very nearly flinches in surprise at the noise. She’d somehow gotten distracted enough to not hear anyone coming her way. Her hand moves towards her sword, she angrily swallows down any other feeling that comes back to her as she does so.
A soft knock on her door is followed by an even softer voice, “Gamora?” His voice is so small, and she can visibly imagine how he’s hunched into himself right now.
“I made breakfast, if you’d like. It’s in the kitchen.” He continues and she notices the roughness in his voice. She denies knowing the reason for it.
“I’ll be there.” He whispers before leaving, supposedly going back to the kitchen.
She doesn’t consider his offer until she’s sure he’s back downstairs, as if physical distance will somehow protect her from the emotions flowing through her body. She’s hungry, yes, but she’s brought plenty of ration bars. Though, the smell of whatever the food is he made is certainly very appealing.
It’s just him. Gamora knows she can’t just hide in this room forever, and already feels a bit embarrassed about the previous night again. That quickly morphs into determination and she reminds herself of her and Nebula’s bet. She’s supposed to be here purely because of that, and that she totally is. No other reason.
So, breakfast couldn’t hurt.
She’s light on her feet as she slowly walks down the stairs. WIth every step, she’s able to scan more of the house to make sure she’s truly alone with Peter right now. She feels a strange warmth in her chest when her eyes glimpse over the pictures on the wall close to the backdoor, on the opposite side of the stairs. The young, blonde, Terran child she immediately recognizes is in almost all of them and she has the brief urge to go over there and look at the pictures more closely.
Peter comes into her sight as she’s finally made it downstairs. He’s sitting down at the kitchen table, two plates of untouched food in front of him. She enters the kitchen without a word and seems to have surprised him as he nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Gamora!” His voice is high pitched, most likely from either embarrassment or shock. Maybe a bit of both, she decides.
His eyes move over her, something she would ordinarily most definitely stab him for, if not for the flash of worry in his eyes. He seems to have connected her unchanged outfit to a sleepless night, but doesn’t comment on it. After all, she could say the same thing about him.
Her gaze falls onto the vase in the middle of the kitchen table, and her eyes widen as she notices the increased amount of flowers in it. Last night, there were about five violets there, now there’s at least ten. They look healthy and well taken care of. She has a sense, but doesn’t dare think about it.
Until her suspicion is confirmed, as she notices the slight smudge of dirt on his white shirt. Suddenly her throat feels dry and her heartbeat quickens, though she refuses to comment on it. She feels sick almost. She’s aware that he noticed, when she sees his eyes on her out of the corner of her own.
Gamora sits down in front of him, not meeting his eyes until he moves the plate towards her. He points to all the food on it as he explains what everything is. She’s thankful for it, which only makes her feel more defensive right now. She bites down a remark.
It’s a typical Terran breakfast, apparently. He made both pancakes and french toast. He’d looked slightly embarrassed at that, and admitted it made him feel so nostalgic that he usually made them both together instead of separate. Not that Gamora would’ve known it’s not necessarily meant to be eaten together, and she wonders why he would willingly admit to something he’s embarrassed about to her.
Ordinarily, she would never accept food from someone else. She has no clue how he prepared it and she can almost hear Thanos’ disappointing sigh when she moves the fork up to her mouth. Peter had insisted she should try the pancakes first, so she starts with the french toast. Perhaps another time she’d think she’s acting petty, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
She still hesitates taking the actual bite, and feels relieved when he starts without her. His head is ducked down and he’s nearly wolving it down, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. He’s terrible at pretending, though, as she can very clearly see his eyes move towards her plate every few seconds or so.
“It’s good!” He encourages her, mouth full with the pancake that is now gone from his plate. He’s given both her and himself a knife and fork, but he appears to only be using a fork while eating breakfast.
She’s stalling, she knows, when she asks him, “Are Terrans typically supposed to only eat using a fork?”
She fights the smirk off her face when she sees his face heat up, though she can’t fight the way her heart skips a beat when she notices the tip of his ears have gone red as well. This only happens when his blush is deep, she’s realized.
Now that he’s distracted by his own embarrassment, she quickly bites the bullet and stuffs her mouth full with french toast. Her eyes widen and she feels strangely emotional – it’s just so good.
She suddenly doesn’t care that Peter is most likely watching her right now. She clutches the plate tightly, almost to her chest, and eats at an even faster pace than him. He doesn’t comment on it, even if he’s watching her.
By the time she finishes, she, embarrassingly enough, didn’t even notice when she had moved on from her french toast to her pancakes. And thus hadn’t even registered the taste. Before she can decide whether she wants to apologize or not, Peter speaks up.
“I made more, y’know.” He stands up, grabbing his plate and holding his hand out for hers. “I’m getting some more too. Want me to get you some as well?”
Whether he actually wants another serving or is just trying to make her feel more comfortable is not sure, but she takes the opportunity anyway. “Some pancakes… please.” Her voice is soft and she knows it’s because she feels vulnerable.
Peter nods, “More pancakes coming right up!” He stacks three more on her plate and hands it back to her before putting the leftover french toast on his. He sits back down and starts eating, now using his knife as well. She laughs softly.
Her eyes move over to the pan and notices that there are no pancakes left. Peter, who apparently sees this, says, “Did you want any more? I could totally make more if you want.”
She shakes her head, “No, thank you. I was just wondering if you wanted some pancakes. I didn’t mean to take all of them.”
He smiles at her, a soft smile that makes her feel all warm inside. “I’m good. Besides, I gave them all didn’t I?” He takes another bite of his french toast, “I prefer french toast, honestly.”
Gamora follows and takes a bite of her pancake, “I think I prefer the pancakes.” She admits quietly.
Peter’s grinning from ear to ear, “We’re a perfect match! Because I love making both of them!”
Gamora feels the heat creep up her cheeks, and watches fondly as a light blush spreads over his’ as well. Now, it feels exactly as it did last night before they went upstairs. She’s not sure how to describe it, but Peter feels warm. He gives her a certain ease to her that she rarely finds herself feeling. It makes her think that perhaps none of it needs to be as difficult as she’s making it out to be. For a second she’s basically forgotten about last night.
That is, until Peter brings it up. “Listen… about last night.”
His expression sombers and she feels the same happening to hers. There’s still this look of worry and warmth in his eyes, his voice is gentle and while his body is tense he’s not defensive.
“I’m sorry. It was just very overwhelming, very quickly. I didn’t mean to scare you. If you want—“
“I’m not scared.” She hisses, interrupting him.
Of course, Peter lets her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.. overwhelm you as well. Yes, I’ve been caring for the Godslayer ever since… you know. I know how important that sword is to you, which means it’s important to me. If you want, you can come to my room and maybe check it out? Or you could borrow some of the cleaning supplies, if you’d like.”
Gamora doesn’t answer his question, too busy going over the way he said ‘you’ instead of ‘her’. It takes a few minutes of silence and him softly calling out her name for her to snap back to reality and respond. “I.. don’t know.” She replies truthfully.
“I just wasn’t expecting it to be there. It’s the exact same.” She adds.
“Well.. yeah.” He’s squirming a little, and she’s noticed that he’s uncomfortable with sitting still in situations like this. “You are the same person.”
She snorts. He doesn’t sound like he even believes that himself. Or maybe that’s what she wants to hear, perhaps rejection is a lot easier than acceptance from him.
Even though the sword belongs to Gamora, or A Gamora at least, and so does everything about it, it still feels like he’s giving a part of himself to her like this. He’s showing her one of his most vulnerable sides, and suddenly she’s overcome with the feeling of wanting to comfort him.
She’s in his house, on his home planet, and now they’re talking about his way of honoring her after having had a typical Terran breakfast. He’s been giving a lot of himself to her over the past few hours they’ve been together, and she wonders how her old self has ever gotten used to this. Her gaze moves to the violets.
Perhaps she never did.
Gamora is a little sick of being a coward, she decides, and speaks up. “The reason I was surprised to hear you were actually living with your grandfather is because it was very different on Zen-Whoberi.” The words come out in a rush.
Peter’s eyes widen, and she hears him gasp. He’d somehow managed to understand her, despite her haste. His eyes full of wonder and adoration, as if she’d invented that music she knows he loves so much.
“Tell me?” His voice is bordering on a whisper, but she’s able to hear him nonetheless.
She nods and continues, “Families built houses surrounding each other to live in. Everyone lived with relatives, but the houses were separate for the families. When two people got married, they moved into either one of the houses and became part of the family. Tradition decided.” Gamora is used to talking about her homeworld in past tense, but it stings every time. More than she’d ever admit.
“That’s beautiful.” He says so earnestly it makes her even more emotional. She always gets like this when talking about her home world, as she barely gets to. His reaction doesn’t really help either and she thinks perhaps her old self hasn’t told him this before.
“So, tradition? Like what? How do they pick?” He asks, clearly intrigued.
Her face falls, “I don’t remember.” She admits.
His expression mimics hers, but a soft look follows. “Hey, that’s okay.” He reached across the table, stopping right next to the violets. His palm faces up, an invitation for her to reach out. “Thank you for sharing.” He adds.
She leaves it there and watches his expression sadden more, his hand slowly moves back to his lap. He quickly recovers, and puts on a most likely fake smile, “Here you just move away when you want. You don’t have to be with anyone to move out or anything, nor do you have to stay close. Some people migrate to a whole different country!”
“Oh.” Is all she says, and really all she can think of right now. His eyes search hers, probably to find an explanation for her sudden retreat, but she looks away before he can find anything.
Peter’s heartbeat accelerates and his breathing turns slightly frantic, almost as if he’s panicking. “Tea?” He pants out, shaking his head after as if to clear his mind. “I mean, would you like some tea?”
Gamora nods. Anything to make him leave her space, to go back to that physical distance between them. He’s a threat. Not in the way Thanos has warned her about, but in the way it makes her want to be here. With him. She wants to belong.
“So, uh,” Peter starts, holding up a tea bag, “Earth flavors are very different, at least the names, but this one is the closest thing to your favorite.”
“I don’t have a favorite tea.” She snaps, harsh and vehemently. Because it’s true, she doesn’t. She hates everything he knows about her that she doesn’t — yet, perhaps. But that is not enough to shake this feeling.
She also hates how she’s hurting him, she can see him physically recoil at her words. The look on his face hurt and somber and if she listens carefully she can hear the sound of soft hiccups coming up his throat. His red rimmed eyes, from the previous night, water and Gamora has to swallow the lump down her throat in order to not join him.
“You’ll like it.” He whispers and she’s not sure he meant for her to hear. His mind is probably somewhere else. With her. Memories to a time she didn’t bring him pain and suffering, one where she would’ve probably been excited to try the tea out. Maybe she’d kiss him after as a ‘thank you’, and they’d drink their tea together cuddled up on the couch.
Those thoughts make her blood boil, and she shoots up from her chair so quickly it nearly falls over. Peter remains unmoving, clearly unsurprised by her reaction.
He was expecting her to run.
This only makes her frustrated. She hates how he knows her. She feels weak, vulnerable, cornered… she does want to run, but doesn’t want to prove him right.
He finally turns back to her and she notices the lonely tear on his cheek, “I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse as if he’d been crying for a while. Maybe he has, she thinks. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” His tone is more pleading now, and he seems slightly desperate for her to stay.
Gamora is truly confused now. He expected her to leave, but when she doesn’t, he voices that he wants her to stay. It works, she’s aware. He gives her space to leave, to build her defenses, yet if she decides to stay he refuses to let himself be misunderstood as if he wants to hurt her. He opens himself up to her in a way that makes her let her guard down.
Just another thing to add to the list of things he knows about her that she doesn’t, she thinks bitterly.
He moves closer to her, handing her the cup he prepared. Now that he’s right in front of her she takes her time looking at him. He looks absolutely exhausted. Dark eyebags contrasting the red rimmed eyes, his lips are chapped and broken — dried blood on a spot she can almost see the teeth mark in. His hair is a bunch of messy curls and his beard is longer than before.
Guilt surges through her and her heart aches so painfully it makes it hard to breathe. Her hand instinctively moves up to his face, her fingertips brushes his cheek. He makes a sound that is both a gasp and a whine and she watches his eyes well up with tears.
What has she done to him?
Despite this, he still looks at her with so much reverence in his eyes. His gaze holds so much love, tenderness, kindness and other things Gamora doesn’t dare name. She feels warm again, like the comfortable temperature on Zen-Whoberi. He feels like home.
His eyes close and open again continuously, almost as if he wants to get lost in her touch but can’t take his eyes off her. Her hand moves down from his cheek to his chest, right where his heart is beating. It’s an overwhelming feeling. It’s thunderous through her ears and she feels the vibrations running from her palm through her body.
His heart is racing and she doesn’t understand how she does that to him. She knows it’s mutual, though.
Her eyes are glued to her hand, and she feels Peter lean down slightly, trying to look at her face. She ducks her head further, letting her hair cover fall over her like curtains, shielding her from his eyes.
He doesn’t pry, because of course he doesn’t. It’s Peter. And if she’s learned anything about him now, it’s that he respects her boundaries no matter what. He wants to let her know what he wants, but never goes as far to let himself have it at her expense.
Tears spring to her eyes and suddenly in a rush, she moves back to her room swiftly. It’s too much.
Peter actually whines this time and she can hear his footsteps follow her. He stops by the stairs, “Gamora?” He calls out her name, his voice breaking. It makes her want to turn back, but she refuses.
She reaches her room and closes the door behind her, digging through her bag to get her holo out. She opens Nebula’s contact, but she has no idea what to say. She has no recollection of ever truly confiding in Nebula like does, but she’s truly at a loss here.
She thinks about her Nebula, the one she lost during the battle. Sure, she still has her sister, but this is a completely different version of her she has no recollection of. As far as Gamora knows, Nebula would laugh at her current situation and take advantage of her being in such a vulnerable state.
She lets out a frustrated noise, feeling absolutely alone right now.
She nearly jumps as Peter knocks on her door. “Gamora? Please talk to me.”
Flashbacks from the previous night come back to her, they’re nearly in the exact same position now.
“G’mora?”
His voice is soft and full of emotion, and she doesn’t think she’s ever loved the way anyone says her name until now. She sighs and moves up to her door, opening it halfway.
“Oh” he breathes, apparently surprised by her, which she finds pleasing right now. “Hey, I’m sorry. Was that too much?”
Gamora shakes her head, “I was the one.. doing that. You didn’t do anything.”
Peter smiles at her, “I liked it.” He’s shy in a way he doesn’t seem often, his bravado completely gone. “I like.. you ”
Gamora scoffs at him with a look of disbelief on her face. She’s seen what she’s done to him now, what she has been doing to him. He’d be a fool to like her. Yet she can’t help but ask. “Me, or…..” She doesn’t finish, but she knows he heard it anyway. Me or her.
“Gamora, you are her. You’re Gamora. I like.. Gamora.” It’s a little weird and uncomfortable. Neither of them are really sure how to talk about this, how to refer to her old self. He looks hopeful, awaiting her reaction. He’s trying, she knows. More than anyone ever has for her.
She remembers Nebula’s words. He’s an idiot, but that idiot made you happier than you’ve ever been.
Perhaps he is a fool, then.
She doesn’t respond, her facial expression neutral. She’s basically at his mercy right now, and she is nowhere near ready for that. The feeling of being so out of control of the situation terrifies her and she suddenly gets the urge to close the door and hide again.
Peter, having sensed this, decides to change the topic. “Your tea is gonna get cold, assuming you still want it?”
Gamora pushes down her annoyance at the fact that he has once again read her better than she can, and replaces it with gratitude. She nods and follows him back down to the kitchen.
She pretends not to notice the way his body seems to untense and the relieved look on his face and she especially pretends not to notice the way her presence makes him feel. His breathing is back to normal and there’s a new lifeness in his expression, replacing the sheer exhaustion from before.
Gamora definitely doesn’t have to fight the smile on her lips when he does a little jog to the kitchen to open the door for her.