inbox

[alivingweapon]

[[ Just a long moment of silence (and a blank screen if appropriate, followed by a beep. ]]

Comments

[alivingweapon]

You dare to speak of Peter's pride as though you know him? As though you understand him? And then you seek to make it my fault? I can hear the conversations your friend [ and she says the word as though it is poison in her mouth ] persists in having. I can hear the pleasure he's taking in this.

[ The loss of Peter's life. Cold and alone and afraid, so close to his family and unable to reach them. Yondu all over again, only now Peter has experienced it from both sides. Full circle. And now he's gone, and she can't fix it, she can't bring him back. ]

That man takes advantage of grief and pain for his own amusement, whether you will admit it or not, and you take advantage of the same in order to, what? Ease your own guilt for being unable to control him? Attempt to secure good will for your companion without a care for the pain you inflict in the process?

[ Gamora knows for a fact that she's incapable of masking the agony and rage in every word she's goaded into speaking, and she can't care. There's no logic left, no common sense that would tell her to stop. Just pain. The fact that he persists, that he pokes holes at Peter to excuse Beckett's actions, he must either be an idiot or just as self-absorbed as his friend. How else could he possibly do all of this and continue to insist that he's attempting to lessen pain with his efforts?

She swallows hard around the lump in her throat, spits the words out through clenched teeth to keep from breaking down entirely and giving these bastards what they so clearly want. Can Beckett hear her? Can he hear the pain she's in? Is he enjoying this? She managed to get herself away from the tablet while she cried the first time, only the raspy after-effect in her voice at the start of this conversation, but she can feel another fresh wave coming on. It makes talking that much more difficult, but she still can't stop. ]

I don't care what you say to him. He is your burden, not mine. The forgiveness you've come looking for? I won't give it. Not to him, for what he's said about Peter, and not to you, for your-- arrogant belief that your need to make amends is so important that it excuses-- this.

If you died tomorrow, I would feel no personal regret for your loss, because I do not know you, and I do not care to. You are cruel. But I can assure you. I would not-- [ her voice cracks, but she presses on ] mock your friend for the pain he would feel.

If he is capable of feeling. If there is even a shred of decency in you, then you will leave me alone. Both of you.

cw for some kind of ptsd/panic attack thing and brief mention of suicide, torture, I am REALLY sorry

[warriorscribe]

[That's how badly he's ruined things.

It's like being plunged in ice water, as the extent of her pain and his mistakes that had caused it sink into his brain with every anguished word. He has inflicted pain where his intentions were the opposite. He didn't see it for all that it was. His guilt, his sleep deprivation, the intensity of his affection for Beckett, whatever it was it didn't matter.

Just like then. Even if it was unintentional, even if it was emotional rather than physical, it brings flashes of memory to the forefront, unbidden. The cult's tower. A black cloak about his shoulders, heavy. Brainwashed, a surgical tool in his hand and meeting resistance. Screams, his voice ensuring in his own manner of speaking it would be for the best.

The crushing guilt when they were rescued. The feeling that he couldn't, shouldn't, be allowed to go on... It overlaps too well in his overtaxed mind and he slips steadily out of his own control.

He takes a choked breath, as if drowning. But these thoughts were his. This was him. No nanomachines, no corruption. He's hurt her, and it's unbearable.]

I- I swear, I didn't...

[But he did. The urge to defend his friend had been as strong as the one to try to comfort the suffering, and as much as he tried to ignore that impulse, however understandable it could be, it wasn't enough. It colored the conversation from the start. His cloak and backpack feel too heavy on his shoulders.]

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm-

[The guilt is visceral, deep and rooted far beyond this conversation, beyond this situation, though that for once it is entirely his fault doesn't help him. He takes another breath, trying to breathe deep, to draw himself back to reality, but his throat is closing up. This isn't right, this isn't right, how dare he hurt when he's the one who inflicted pain?]

Peter is my friend, too. I shouldn't- shouldn't try-... I'll only-...only hurt-...

[He has to get away. She asked. And at the rate he's breaking down, he'd only unthinkingly cause more even if she hadn't. He may have already. With any words he might have left to say.]

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll- leave you. Speediest- and- and safest of returns to him.

[And he jabs at the screen with his fingers that won't behave until he exits the conversation, drops the tablet to breathe into his cupped hands, gasping back the scream building in his chest, until he can subdue it, stuttering back into normal, if rapid, breath. For later.]

[alivingweapon]

[ Gamora has no inkling of the memories flooding his mind. She can hear the change in his breathing, and that's it, difficult to dissect through her own laboured breathing. Indignation? Anger? Perhaps it's guilt, actual shame, or just surprise at being called out. She just knows that he's suddenly talking again. Spluttering, backpedaling, then claiming to be Peter's friend.

That's where she snaps. It's a scream of pure frustration, the result of the maelstrom of sorrow and rage inside of her. He can't even do her the courtesy of leaving her alone. ]

Not a shred.

[ Then she flings her tablet at the opposite wall, dropping her head into her hands, unable to fight that second wave. ]