A/N - It's been a year since I last wrote something for these two and it turns out I've missed them a lot. I adored the brief glimpse of their relationship we got in Avengers Endgame and haven't been able to get this story out of my head since I saw it. Hopefully updates will be relatively quick as I have most of the story written in first-draft form.
With that said, I hope you enjoy this and any feedback is appreciated! Title originates from the song 'Eclipse' by Pink Floyd.
Forty-eight hours. That's how long it takes the Benatar to die once she's saved her occupants from Titan.
Both Nebula and Stark fight to save her for close to an hour. The initial screeching of alarms instantly rouses them from silent reveries and they leap into action without hesitation; Nebula taking manual control of the ship while Stark lists off endless diagnostics and sets to work, fixing what he can.
It's quite possibly the longest hour of Nebula's existence. The air becomes filled with a frantic cacophony of her and Stark's yelling back and forth as they fight to be heard over the steely groan of failing engines. Before long, she cannot tell when he's saying anything over the deafening racket. Nevertheless, she quickly learns to block out the chaos as she wrestles for control of a ship that fights her at every turn, for she has no other choice.
Sixty critical minutes pass in a daze. Nebula doesn't even notice Stark at her side until he too is struggling for control of the ship, yet together they buy as much time as they can despite the buried certainty that their joint efforts will be in vain.
When the end comes, it does so with the groan of a dying animal. The Benatar stumbles to a shuddering halt as her engines finally fall into sickening silence. Nebula and Stark can only sit in shared horror as every light flickers and dies; cascading them into crushing blackness before the backup generator kicks into gear, announcing itself with the activation of artificial green light. Alongside the faint buzz of slowly recovering systems, the only sound left is their ragged breathing, and there is a moment where Nebula wonders if the heavy silence will suffocate her.
Their current predicament is far from unpredictable. Nebula can't decide if that makes it better or worse.
Throughout the entirety of the Benatar's short flight, she had pointedly ignored the fact that they lacked the structural integrity to perform a space jump, nor the fuel to get them to Terra without first stopping elsewhere. Such knowledge had lingered at the back of her mind, certainly, but she'd ploughed on in the hopes that they would stumble upon a planet that could offer ample opportunity to run further repairs. The extreme turbulence upon leaving Titan's wastes should have served as a warning that their voyage would not last, yet the forty-eight hours since breeching the atmosphere had been deceptively smooth.
Had the Benatar been fully functional, they'd be on Terra by now. The navigational systems had estimated the planet to be a mere fifty-eight jumps from Titan; a day's journey at most. In her present state, however, the shear forces of such an endeavour would have ripped the ship apart, and so Nebula had resigned herself to the likelihood of a weeks-long voyage as they travelled the old-fashioned way. The idea had been an unappealing one, but she'd reasoned that anything was better than rotting on Titan.
It's not like she had anywhere else to go.
Regardless, none of that matters now. Weeks that would have been spent trawling through multiple star-systems will now be spent slowly rotting in this one. With time, Nebula imagines a great despair will collapse upon her as the true helplessness of her situation sinks in. For now though, she can only clench her jaw and lean back in her seat in an admission of silent defeat.
At her side, Stark sits stock-still and lost. Wide brown eyes gaze out to the surrounding emptiness and distant burning stars he will never see up-close. His breathing is more rapid than usual – from panic or pain she cannot tell – and his hands tremble in his lap, but he remains silent as fear consumes him. He was foolish to give into hope in the first place, Nebula thinks. Perhaps she could have prepared him better for this eventuality by informing him of the limitations that threatened their precarious journey, but she'd reasoned that what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.
Fat chance of that now. Escaping reality is no longer an option he can rely on. Unless the Benatar somehow wills herself back to life, it is very likely they will both die here, alone and undiscovered.
Stark shouldn't even be awake. If he had a modicum of sense, he would be recovering from the injury that almost killed him rather than swanning around the ship; grimacing as pain dogs his every step. It's only been four days since Nebula dug around in his abdomen. She can still intimately recall his scarlet blood spilling over her hands and his valiant – yet fruitless - efforts not to scream as the anaesthetic proved too feeble for their purposes.
Urgency had forced Nebula to ignore his cries. She'd simply set to work fixing him with the same stoicism she adopted whenever her own systems malfunctioned; quickly identifying the bleeding vessels and sealing them one by one, before draining away any blood and gunk remaining in his abdomen. Miraculously, none of his organs were damaged by the blade. That may have been one trial too many for her to handle. She has an innate, extensive knowledge of how to tear a man to pieces, but putting him back together again is another matter entirely.
There'd been a moment – one fleeting moment at the crescendo of her grief – where she'd wondered if it would matter if he died. If letting him bleed out on the table would be kinder given all the anguish the preceding hours had wrought. Under any other circumstances, she doubts she would have batted an eye over throwing one more body onto the ever-growing pile that has followed her since childhood.
The moment had passed almost as quickly as it arose. Watching her only allies – her only friends - crumble to ash had left Nebula with no more appetite for death. Stark fought by her side. She may not know him, nor can she fully trust him, but he at least has that working in his favour.
An attempt at saving his life was owed.
By the time she finished stitching him back together - finding a certain enjoyment in such a menial task - Stark had long since passed out. Nebula had dutifully cleaned him up and dressed the wound before fetching clean sheets from the bedrooms, aiming to make him as comfortable as possible. The intention was to let him rest and recover while she set about fixing their battered ship. By rights, he should still be lying on the table.
Hel, Nebula should have strapped him down the instant he suggested getting up to help, a mere ten hours after she'd cut him open.
Perhaps it was desperation that forced her to give in to his begging; a growing certainty that if she couldn't stitch the Benatar back together as well, she'd be stranded on the foul wastes of Titan until the end of her pitiful life. An extra pair of hands had seemed attractive at the time, regardless of the broken body they belonged to. Once her resolve shattered, Nebula had forced tools into Stark's grasp, gesturing towards the faulty navigational equipment with a grunt, and told him to get on with it on the condition that he rest every six hours.
That's a promise he seems to have broken ten times over. Nebula wonders if he's voluntarily slept at all in the many hours since she delivered that ultimatum, though at one point she did find him slumped over the console in a light doze.
Not that it matters anymore. The Benatar's death-rattle has seen to that. Their own fates were sealed the instant her engines malfunctioned, or perhaps even as far back as when a moon landed on her. Treating Stark's wound may only have succeeded in buying him a couple of weeks, and Nebula doubts he's going to treat this new development as an excuse to become a model patient. Quite the opposite, most likely.
The ship is quiet. Too quiet. Nebula closes her eyes against the sheer vastness of space and focuses on Stark's rapid breathing before the silence can shatter her ears. Giving up is not an option. She knows that's a reality she'll accept before long; that soon she'll be digging out her tools and tearing the ship apart in the hopes of finding something she can fix. For the moment, however, crushing hopelessness weighs her down to the point where standing is an impossibility, and the only thing preventing her from going mad are Stark's frantic breaths. Every harsh inhale is a solid reminder that she is not alone in the universe quite yet, no matter how close her father has come to sentencing her to that fate.
"What do we do now?" Stark whispers, the words seeming to echo throughout a ship that is now far too empty.
Nebula wishes she knew.
"This is the Benatar. Our engines have malfunctioned and we have no means of repairing them fully. We are carrying two passengers; neither of us are armed. We are requesting safe passage to the nearest occupied planet. I will send our co-ordinates if you can respond to this message. I repeat, we are not armed..."
Nebula's growing sick of the sound of her own voice. For all that she's grateful to find the comms still operational, the endless spiel she's forced to feed them is almost enough to make her wish they were as broken as everything else. Resorting to the automatic distress signal is beginning to look appealing, though in her experience potential rescuers tend to respond better to a verbal plea for help. Besides, she imagines the galaxy is filled with high-pitched whines from thousands of ships, as their inhabitants struggle to cope with the loss of half their crew.
As the minutes pass, she regurgitates her speech in a monotonous daze. In the immediate aftermath of the Benatar giving up the ghost, she had tried to convince herself that this was merely another repair-job and that they'd soon be on their way, but diagnostics had made quick work of dashing such hopes. With proper time and equipment, Nebula has no doubt the ship would be salvageable, but with no access to the outer engines there's little she can do while she remains stranded.
Their only hope of survival is rescue. She'll simply have to swallow her pride and deal with that if she has any desire to drive her blade into her father's chest.
"This is the Benatar. Our engines have malfunctioned and we have no means of repairing them fully. We are carrying two passengers; neither of us are armed. We are requesting safe passage to the nearest occupied planet..."
They have resources to last them a couple of weeks. The loss of their main electrical supply means their life-support systems will no longer function indefinitely, but the backup generator should keep them running for upwards of sixteen days. They've lost the ability to recycle oxygen and water from the air, which is what'll probably kill them in the end. Thankfully the Guardians had prepared for the latter by hoarding vast quantities of water – not to mention an impressive collection of Xandarian Ale – so they'll hardly succumb to thirst any time soon.
Nebula wishes they'd been so generous with their foresight where food was concerned. There's certainly enough to last herself and Stark a short while - especially considering the supply was intended to feed six rather than two - but the Guardians' understanding of proper nutrition is woeful. Groot and Quill especially, from what Nebula recalls, tended to survive on snacks alone. There's plenty of food packets that will provide energy for a short while but will do little to chase away hunger, though if they ration carefully it may be possible to draw out their meals for up to three weeks. She supposes she has Gamora to thank for the morsels of meat and fruit scattered among the rest.
Should desperation come calling, Nebula supposes she can suffer through hunger to ensure Stark remains fed. Her cybernetics may not keep her alive forever, but she'll last much longer than he will when starvation becomes inevitable.
"This is the Benatar. Our engines have malfunctioned and we have no means of repairing them fully. We are carrying two passengers; neither of us are armed..."
An involuntary smirk adorns her face as the lie leaves her lips. Between her own weaponry, Stark's battered suit, and the Guardians' extensive stockpile – most of which are explosives forged by Rocket – any potential rescuers will find them hoarding a small arsenal regardless of her empty promises. Of course, that becoming a problem relies on there being any hope of rescue in the first place, and an endless static only serves to hammer home that impossibility.
She doesn't even dare mention her name. The years since her desertion of Thanos have forced her to adopt many aliases as it is, but she can only begin to fathom how essential concealing her identity is now.
She is a daughter of Thanos. Once, that would have made her little more than a distant monster to most, but her father's actions have rendered her a threat by association in the eyes of every survivor. She's a direct link to the creature who stole their loved ones from their arms. Half the universe may now be frightened into immobility by the mere mention of her name, while the other half would crawl through Hel itself to watch her burn.
In the impossible eventuality that help does come for them, there's always the option of fighting should her identity become an issue. There aren't many capable of besting her in combat. Nebula could always slaughter her would-be attackers before their weapons leave their belts, before stealing away their ship in the aftermath of bloodshed.
She has killed people for less. Such ferocity may transform her into a monster in Stark's eyes, but at least then he would know what she is. So long as she delivers him to Terra in one piece, she doubts he'll have reason to complain about her brutality when all is said and done.
"This is the Benatar..."
How many times will she have to utter those words over the coming days, she wonders. How many times will she reach out to a universe that isn't listening, before she caves and activates the distress signal? It feels like she's been sat by the comms unit for days when it can only have been an hour, and already she is sick of the monotony. It only serves to remind her that her chances of survival are miniscule. That she is stranded on a ship that will never fly again, and the only reply she'll ever get to her pleas is the unsympathetic hiss of static.
Someone lesser would crumble under the weight of such despair. A weak individual would shatter when forced to endure the atrocities this week has wrought upon her. Her world was irreparably destroyed the instant Thanos left for Vormir with Gamora in tow, but it seems that even when one has reached rock bottom, there's always room to dig deeper. And here she is, at the end of it all, facing three weeks of dwindling supplies and limited oxygen, with no-one left in the universe to care.
Nebula will not let this break her. She cannot. Nor will she let herself give up entirely; not while Thanos still lives, spiting her with every breath he takes.
Her sister is owed better.
There's music playing when Nebula returns to the cockpit.
Her initial instinct screams to admonish Stark for wasting time with drivel when there is actual work to be done, but something about the familiar tones stop her in her tracks. The ship has been quiet since they first clambered aboard - far too quiet considering the boisterousness of its prior occupants – and the music only serves to emphasise just how oppressive such silence had been. There's no rumble of engines to latch onto now. No hum of a fully-functioning generator nor the usual symphony of beeps emerging from the cockpit. There isn't even the headache-inducing racket of Rocket and Quill lost in an argument or Groot playing one of his games; noises so predictable, Nebula once dreaded being exposed to them when the Guardians' path crossed with hers.
The music might be the only thing that stops her from slipping into madness in the coming days. Quill would have laughed at that, if he still could.
"I know this song," she says without thinking. Her arrival must have gone unnoticed, for the mere sound of her voice causes Stark to jump with a muffled curse. It would be an amusing sight, if he didn't look like he was wasting away before her eyes. "Gamora liked it, I think."
Stark looks to her with an unreadable softness lurking beneath tired eyes, and for a moment they both simply listen. The melody is rather pleasant, Nebula supposes. It's slow and sweet – a passionate singer reaching out to a lost love – and if the reminder that comes with it wasn't so painful, she might even admit to liking it.
The jolt which grip her chest at the memories it unearths is too agonising, however. All she can see is Gamora offering a hand - swaying slightly to the rhythm - and uttering "Dance with me?" with a challenging lift of her eyebrow.
Nebula had refused, the specific lull that came with music still foreign to her. If Gamora was disappointed by the biting retort of "I don't dance," she hadn't shown it, however. Instead, she'd smiled with a fondness Nebula had rarely glimpsed since childhood, and admitted, "Neither did I, once upon a time."
How long ago had that been? A year? Two? Their encounters had grown increasingly frequent once Ego's demise brought them together, though now Nebula wishes she'd found more excuses to join her sister over the years. Perhaps, if given the chance to see Gamora one last time, she would take her up on her offer and dance clumsily in her arms; suffering in quiet humiliation, but no doubt gleaning some warmth from the joy in her sister's smile.
Or perhaps the opposite would have been better. If they were still constantly at each other's throats - convinced that hatred burned at the centre of their relationship rather than love - Gamora may well have concealed the Soul Stone's location while Nebula screamed in agony. Her foolish actions borne of love and loyalty to her sister may never have transpired, and both Gamora and the universe would be alive and whole. No doubt Nebula would die once Thanos grew tired of tearing her apart, but such a fate would be infinitely better than her current circumstances.
Trillions have died as an indirect consequence of her survival. Because Gamora loved her too much to watch her suffer.
Nebula wonders if she'll ever come to terms with that.
"Do you want me to turn it off?" Stark asks, almost hesitantly, and Nebula wonders how much pain he can glimpse beneath her mask. She'd been better at concealing it once.
"No," she admits, frowning as the answer surprises even her. Still, the music itself is little more than background noise, and while the memories it carries may bring only pain, it's nothing compared to the crushing stillness that will replace it when it's gone.
All too aware that she's been standing still as a mannequin for far too long, Nebula finally drags herself over to sit by Stark's side. The quantity of screaming red lights on the console has lessened somewhat since her last check; either his efforts have fixed a fraction of their problems, or the tiny bulbs have given up as well.
"What have you done so far?"
"Not as much as I'd like," Stark admits, leaning back with a sigh and wiping sweat from his brow. He's too pale under the artificial lights for comfort, and Nebula doesn't miss the trembling in his hands when they return to his lap. "The navigational systems are back online, but we're eons away from the nearest occupied planet. Life support systems might last us a couple of weeks but not much longer. We have fuel, but the engines are beyond repair so we can't use it. Only thing I could completely figure out is that ancient music-player."
He gestures to the tiny device, currently linked up to a myriad of wires connecting it to the speakers. Rocket's handiwork presumably, given how unnecessarily messy the set-up appears. As much as Nebula never expected to miss that rotten creature, she can't help but wonder if their situation would be so desperate with him present. What she's gathered in technical know-how over the years, Rocket has double in imagination. She could benefit from the latter in this instance.
"The comms are functional," she says, only to regret it instantly when hope flares in Stark's eyes. "Not that it makes a difference. There's no-one out there to hear us."
"We don't know that," Stark contends, refusing to wither when Nebula shoots him a glare. "All it takes is one ship passing our way. Someone will find us."
Nebula doesn't bother pointing out that if there are ships passing so close to this cursed wasteland of a system, they'll probably have little intention of helping.
"You should rest," she insists, for what feels like the thousandth time since she stitched him back together. With the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and the grey tinge marring his complexion, Stark looks half a corpse already. If he works himself to death then Nebula truly will be alone in the universe, and she doesn't want to know what that pain will turn her into. Stark is little more than a stranger insistent on trying his luck, but having him is better than having nobody and stewing in her grief alone.
It is a shame then, that he seems in such a hurry to die.
"Can't. Too much left to do," Stark dismisses her with unthinking ease, and white-hot anger threatens to grab her by the throat. To his credit, he must notice his slight, for one look in her direction is enough to transform his defiance into apologetic sheepishness. "Please stop looking at me like you want to stick another knife in me."
"Keep disobeying me and maybe I will!" she snaps. Part of her thinks she might even be serious. "You should-"
"I can't!" Stark retorts with a ferocity that seems to surprise even him, his screwdriver falling from a trembling hand and clattering to the floor.
For a moment everything stops. The only sounds are Stark's heaving breaths - requiring more effort than they should - and an inappropriately upbeat song playing over the speakers. A sliver of irritation itches beneath Nebula's skin, but she suppresses it as she regards Stark with the same detached curiosity she's aimed at many of her victims. In the brief time she's known him, he has never seemed quite so... alive. A fight still lurks within his veins. It just might save his life, if he can suppress that damned self-destructive streak of his.
When he speaks once more, the fight is gone. All that's left is a broken whisper, but the echo of that fire lingers long enough for Nebula to hang onto every word.
"Every time I close my eyes, all I see is the kid..."
He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, but then, he doesn't need to. Nebula saw the boy cling to life just long enough for terror to consume him, before he too faded like the rest. She still doesn't know who he was to Stark. No doubt she'll never truly know, but if Gamora's loss is what threatens to drown her should she dwell on it, the child's death seems to be just as destructive to Stark.
"You can't avenge him if you're dead," she tells him plainly.
That's all they have left now. Half the universe is dead. The only person she's ever loved is gone and she doesn't even know if there's anything left to bury. And now Stark has his own reasons to wish never-ending pain upon her father. Vengeance may be a bitter motivator, but it's kept her alive when many have died around her, and if they need to rely on it to stay alive now then so be it.
A sad smile reaches Stark's face while tears gather in his eyes, though he seems determined not to let them fall. His attention shifts beyond the window to the bleak nothingness surrounding them; distant stars acting as a beacon they remain incapable of following. Nebula wonders where Terra is, out there beyond their black canvas. Is that where Stark's looking now? His eyes drawn towards a home he will never see again, no matter how many hours they devote to trying to fix their broken ship?
She wonders what it must be like to have a home worth missing.
"The way things are looking, I don't think there's gonna be a lot of avenging," Stark admits, though if the prospect scares him he doesn't show it.
A private smile pulls at his lips before he can school his expression into neutrality, and he drops his gaze to rub at tired eyes. If that action serves to wipe away his tears as well, he gives no indication of it when he looks back to Nebula with a weak grin.
They remain in relative silence for a moment, forced to endure each other's company yet finding little reason to complain. Nebula looks to the stars once more, trying to pretend that the universe is as peaceful as her view would make it seem, and not crying out in agony as a result of her father's actions. She supposes that's one small mercy to them being stranded; she won't be forced to witness the fallout of her unforgivable failure.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Stark regard the scattered tools around him, along with the myriad of tasks still lying in wait, before sighing and leaning back in his chair. It seems he's come to the conclusion that her persistent order to rest may not be entirely unfounded. Sure enough, when he speaks, it's with the air of a man admitting defeat.
"You'll wake me after an hour?" he asks, a silent plea buried in his gaze.
"Three," she insists, in a tone which leaves little room for argument. Stark must sense he's on the losing side of this battle, for he clamps his mouth shut and manages the energy for a single, consenting nod. "You have my word."
That assurance is all Stark needs. He heaves a sigh, as though finally letting himself acknowledge his exhaustion, and rises to his feet with painstaking effort. His eyes clench shut, and Nebula can't mistake the pained hiss that escapes through gritted teeth. A traitorous hand comes to rest atop his wound before he lets it drop, as though shamed by the brief display of weakness.
If he expects Nebula to chastise him, he's sorely mistaken. She knows a thing or two about pain. Enough to know that there are times where even the most stoic soldier cannot hide it, and Stark is far from stoic at the best of times. She takes comfort in his quick recovery – paying attention just long enough to watch him limp to the refuge of a bed – before casting him from her mind as she returns to the issues at hand.
The work that still needs to be done feels monumental. Red flashes signifying areas in need of attention mock her with a merciless fervour as she casts her gaze over the console; dutifully ignoring the weariness clawing at her own eyes in favour of assessing her priorities. The backup life-support systems are fully operational – a small mercy considering nothing else on this blasted ship seems to be – though she knows that won't last. There's no way to make them last forever, much as she wishes she could. However, if she can keep the ship from falling apart entirely, she may be able to buy time for a miraculous solution to arise regarding their battered engines and relative lack of fuel. At the very least, there may be a possibility of salvaging a few precious days of oxygen; days in which potential rescuers just might stumble upon their transmissions and nobly answer their call.
It's a fool's hope. Nebula isn't fond of surrendering to hope at the best of times. In the absence of other viable options, however, she simply swallows her pride and brings up the diagnostic reports, poring over the data and assessing the vast quantity of repairs that need doing.
She doesn't even get the opportunity to make a start. Her musings are interrupted by a loud crash from deep within the ship, and she's on her guard in an instant. Making an effort to bury the concern tightening her throat, she hastily frees herself from the cockpit and follows the direction of the noise; the silence left in its wake sending unease thrumming beneath synthetic skin. Deep down, she already knows what she's likely to find, but that doesn't make her eventual discovery any less disheartening.
It takes the sight of a motionless Stark splayed inelegantly on the floor to assure her that no matter how hopeless her situation may seem, there's always room for everything to get worse.