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[alivingweapon]

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

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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. ]