alivingweapon

[There's a break, almost a raw sob in his voice he's held back from Stephen, that he lets go when he opens a line to Gamora.]

Tell me this isn't happening.

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[ The voice that responds has the low gravel of someone who has been crying recently. Even more so than it did during the short conversations only minutes ago. It's covered over with a healthy helping of vicious hatred now, though. ]

It is a low, craven, insensitive being who can not even make their own atonements, who would have another apologize for the pain they cause. I suppose this should not surprise me, as it would require the same feckless lack of compassion and care to mock the dead and those who are grieving.

I am not sorry we don't know each other, Enoch, if this is the company you choose to keep.

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[The response is measured, careful calm, a tonal plea for peace.]

You misunderstand, he did not send me to apologize for him. He's seen where he erred, and he may yet apologize in truth. I'm apologizing for the pain he inflicted anyway, because I want to help. Because I don't know you, I don't know what I could do, but it is only right to extend the offer. Because no one deserves that.

[And he does feel responsible for him, but that way lies a direction this conversation should not go. Everything in him urges him to defend his closeness to the vampire, too, but that's even worse. It would be so highly disingenuous the strength of the urge leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.]

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[ Gamora has already been crying. She feels like she's done more crying in the last few days than she has in her entire life up until this place. Fuck Norfinbury. Seriously. She wants to reassure him. She wants to be the voice of reason and hope. But she's holding a tiny lifeless hand in hers and nothing feels like it will be all right again. ]

...Peter.

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[He doesn't like that tone in her voice. She shouldn't have that tone. She shouldn't ever have to have that tone.]

He's...

[Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, holding in a torrent of feelings.]

I'm sorry I wasn't there.

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He just-- He just collapsed.

[ She can't talk without her voice cracking. She's leaning against a wall, tablet resting on her legs as she curls in on herself. Rocket is next to her, and she knows that he's gone, but she can't leave his side. Everything hurts, and there's nothing she can do about it. ]

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...were you guys with him? I mean...did he just...

[This was too much. This was one time where he wished he didn't have such a vivid imagination, he could just see Rocket falling over in the snow--Rocket had such a forceful personality that made him seem so much bigger, made him forget that he might be not as physically strong as they'd all thought. Or maybe he'd been sick? That was just as bad, Rocket suffering and probably not telling anybody--]

I wish I was there right now. [His body would be gone before he could get nearer. He couldn't even say a proper goodbye.]

Maybe...[He wipes his nose with his sleeve.] ...he won't be gone too long. [Denial would make it easier than to think about the fear that he might not be back.]

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He just fell over in the snow. Stephen tried--

[ Her voice catches, and there's seriously not a single part of her existence that doesn't hurt right now. ]

He tried to bring him back, but it didn't help. He was so excited to get back to you. In his way. [ Which means he complained about it and made it into a huge burden, but would have torn to shreds any obstacle that stood between them and Peter. ] We were talking, and then he went quiet, and then he just--

[ Talking about it does not help. It just makes it hurt more. ]

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[At least Rocket...didn't go out still thinking that Peter was dead. And that was a tiny comfort.

He hates the way her voice catches, he wants to be there so bad, and he can't. He feels like he's a million miles away.

There's an irrational part of him that's still angry at Stephen, he's a doctor, he should have done something, but there wasn't anything he could do. What could he possibly do?

He's quiet a long moment, his shoulders shaking as he tries to keep it in, but he can't. He really can't, it's been too much. All of this, the thousand-plus years he thought he'd been trapped here, all those fake memories, then dying, and then Rocket--he needs to be strong, Bluestar told him a leader needed to keep it together, be strong for the others, but he can't even be strong for himself right now.]

This place sucks.

[It's all he can manage to articulate his feelings.]

Edited Date: 2018-01-23 03:00 am (UTC)

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If he has seen an error and yet persists, then he is as willfully stubbourn as Peter, which makes his soulless criticism hypocritical, as well. You can not make ammends for another's actions. We each are responsible for our own path in life. You can not lessen pain he has inflicted. Pretending that you can does you both a disservice.

[ She is still fucking furious, and hearing bits and pieces of the conversations that are still going on with Bluestar and Stephen are only serving to cement her opinion of the man who sees no problem in making Peter's death about himself. ]

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Oh, he is a stubborn fool. [He can say that because he can be one too.] I think that's what they dislike so much about each other, these clashing wills. He's prideful, too, and-... we may be responsible for our own paths but we can try to influence them for each other, hopefully in good ways.

[A heavy sigh. What is he even doing, he thinks, as he pauses to switch to his conversation with Flynn. He comes to the realization there just how badly his own judgment has been in error. He can't get proper sleep soon enough, honestly. What if he's just ruined any attempt at reconciliation because of his own flawed line of thought?]

I'll talk to him again, I'll see if I can't...at least, at the very least, encourage him to stop and take the night to reflect.

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[ Gamora's rage is fanned again, making her hands shake, and it's reflected in her voice. It's calm and measured and very slow when she speaks again, but it trembles with barely concealed fury. ]

Do not compare them to try and draw on my sympathy. A man who would turn this kind of suffering into... entertainment for himself has nothing in common with Peter.

Nothing.

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Well, given-

[He stops abruptly. What. In all the wide, infinite worlds. Is he even doing?

He can't believe he even started to argue that. Why would he even try to bring Peter down to this level? For the sake of, what, ensuring all sides have the full truth? That's not fair to anyone - their lashing out may have the same basic concept at their core - a feeling of needing to have control over their situation - but the emotions behind it were totally divergent. Peter tamping down his feelings in a harmful way, Beckett seeking to patch up his wounded dignity in a harmful place.

He'd already started the sentence, though - there's nothing left to do but move on and hope she doesn't ask for the rest.]

...No, that wasn't what I intended, I assure you. Their similarity is only- it fuels their quarrel, augments their differences. I wouldn't have compared them if you hadn't, to point out Beckett's hypocrisy - it's not to flatter the one who did wrong, it's not to endear you to either of us, it's...context. A contrast.

[By the time he thinks to rein in his tongue, it's too late. His focus is far from ideal and it shows in his halting speech, stopping and restarting sentences to try to word his thoughts correctly because his mind seems constantly two steps behind his mouth.]

I don't know if it's worth anything - it likely isn't - but...entertainment wasn't his goal. It was- poor judgment. Which you need to hear from him, I know, but I don't- I can't just watch suffering and I stepped in too late to stop him.

[And he shouldn't be here. But here he is. How badly has he ruined things?]

None of this should have happened. I'm sorry.

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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.

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It's awful. Peter. I don't want to be here.

[ Which, all right, that's not exactly a unique thought. Everyone here must hate it. Everyone must want to be able to leave. That doesn't make the pain she's feeling any less real. ]

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[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.]

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I don't either.

[A heavy sigh. It takes a few moments, but he manages to collect himself enough to talk. It makes his voice raw.]

I don't know why we came here. Or how.

Sometimes I...wonder if it might be because we flew into something we shouldn't have, pissed off someone entirely too powerful...what if it was the Infinity Stone?

I'm sorry. If I had anything to do with it. I'm so sorry.

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[ 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. ]

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It's not your fault.

[ Then she stops and actually thinks about it. ]

I don't think it's your fault. Did you pick up something stupid during this latest restocking stop? Any glowing rocks or strange machines?

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I don't think I did? I mean, it's possible I could have and not remembered it? I checked my pockets, nothing weird.

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Peter.

[ Said with the sort of tight anger in her voice that means an ass kicking may well be in his near future. ]

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I didn't. I swear I didn't.

[He's much more certain, now.]

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[ The fight leaves her voice in a flash, just as quickly as it cake, and the grief settles in again. ]

I know. I know, I'm sorry--

[ She doesn't apologize often. This is just too much for them, too much pain. ]

Peter, I can't.

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[He knows that grief, he knows that sound it takes, he knows exactly what she means. She was there, she saw everything, and he knows...]

Then don't. Just...

[His voice catches.]

I'm here. Just stay on the line with me a little longer.

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I'm not going anywhere.

[ Is that really a promise she can make, though? Is that a promise any of them can make, given what's just happened? ]

Will you play me a song?

[ Never mind that she's the one with the Zune. He can still choose. He can tell her what to play, what she needs to hear right now. He's good at that. ]

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Okay.

[Okay, that's...he can hold onto that.]

...Ain't No Mountain High Enough.

[He knows what she means, and he knows the list by heart. This one's good. This one's got good memories with it, too.]

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[ Gamora shifts and shuffles around, digging out the Zune with one hand and finding the song. She still hasn't let go of Rocket. She's afraid that the moment she does, he will disappear. It's too much.

She starts it playing without much trouble and closes her eyes against the pressure and sting of the desire to cry. Why can't she keep them all? Why can't she keep them safe? ]

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[He's quiet as the song plays, but he really does cry, and does his best not to let any sounds of it make it through the connection.

It was the time for music, and music helped. Music healed, even if he wasn't ready for healing yet.

He knows so well the importance of music at a time like this.]

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[ Her breathing is shaky. She's showing way too much of what makes her soft and breakable to people she doesn't truly know yet, but Stephen. He stopped, dropped his things. Rocket went down, and he nearly froze himself trying to save her friend. That makes him one, too, doesn't it? So maybe it's all right to let him see her cry.

She wants to be stronger than this, though. She wants to not have to say to Peter what she says next, to not have to need to hear his reply. ]

Don't leave me again, all right?

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