Wow. I am so completely shocked at the reception this got, and I'm so pleased that so many of you liked it. Honestly, going in I wasn't sure what to expect and what the reception would be. So thank you to each and every one of you that took the time to read this and leave reviews/favourite, it's definitely spurred me on to be more active in the fanfiction writing community in the future. At the moment I have some ideas for potential fics circulating in my funny little brain, including a prompt that I hope to fulfil soon, but since I had people requesting another part to Abnegation I couldn't resist turning it into a two-shot. However, this is the last part- I promise!
The idea of this chapter is that it takes place throughout certain moments the first instalment, each segment being from the POV of a different Guardian to get their thoughts and feelings on the events that transpired. I thought that this would provide a much deeper insight into my interpretations of the characters, and also providing a variety of interesting perceptions of the same events.
I'm sorry I didn't get around to doing this sooner, but I've been very busy for the past month, what with school starting again and added responsibilities and all sorts of drama. But anyway, enough procrastinating- here it is! Enjoy! :)
Drax disliked silence. Always had done, and always would. Years and years (had it really been that long) of existing in a perpetual state of lusting for vengeance, complete with his more homicidal tendencies and his own instincts for self-preservation had left him loathing the rare moments when stillness filled the atmosphere around him.
Quiet always meant waiting for something bad to happen. Helpless, awaiting the arrival of another predator. Or prey.
He associated silence with the stoic air of malevolence that Ronan had about him when he slew his wife with his bare hands. Or the muteness that seized his daughter after screaming for mercy, prior to her neck being snapped like a brittle twig.
And Drax, also known by the alias of 'The Destroyer, certainly detested the quiet even more so now that Peter Quill was unable to break it.
When he'd first come across the individual who lived in the masquerade that he was a devious and nifty outlaw of the galaxy ('Star-Lord?' A peculiar title, especially for an individual who, as far as he knew, was not of royal ancestry of any race, let alone of the stars), he had thought him a fool. Any man had to undeniably be a fool to think he could protect a spawn of Thanos from Drax's wrath. But following their... unexpected team-up, all of their conflict, their saving of the galaxy and the subsequent camaraderie that the team- the Guardians- had formed, Drax could not refute that he had thought Peter Quill less of an idiot and more of truly gallant companion. A brother, even (albeit one who was significantly more vertically challenged and with a puny in comparison muscle density).
One thing that Drax had always admired about Peter was that he was never quiet. He was always making quips- peculiar ones that exasperated Drax, who apparently misunderstood their meaning (why was Quill 'over the moon' about his new coat? Surely a simple garment without any devices providing levitation could not carry him to the door, let alone a moon). When the situation was dire, Quill always knew a few choice words to say and suddenly everything wouldn't seem quite as bad anymore.
How bizarre it was that their leader was unable to assure them that everything would be okay. How strange it was to see him collapsing hard to the ground during a routine mission on Deo, shards of metal embedded in his chest wall, without a single sound of surprise or pain exiting his mouth. All their opponents had been vanquished at either their hands (how easy it was, too. Weaklings). Everything was silent. Except for the sounds of Peter Quill's laboured breaths, Rocket's barked orders to startthefreakingshiporhe'sasgoodasdead and Gamora's shrieks of panic.
Peter Quill was strong. He shouldn't be supported in a still-developing Groot's arms, pale and lifeless and eyes half-lidded as a steady stream of crimson seeped through his shirt and jacket. It wasn't right. It shouldn't happen.
Of course they had left Deo immediately, spurred on by the frightening sight of the blood leaking from Quill's perforated chest and the knowledge of the even more grievous damage that was wreaking his body internally. They had contacted the Nova Corps about the situation, and they would have the finest medical team awaiting their arrival once they reached Xandar.
But Xandar was still several hours away. That was too long, and Drax couldn't bear it.
Peter had been lain across a settee in the briefing headquarters of the Milano. Taking him to his bedroom would have required utilising the steps and, frankly, no one was willing to take that risk. No point in harming him further. He lay still shrouded in the silence that Drax so detested, eyes fluttering behind his closed lids with occasional muted groans escaping from his throat. The largest chunk of metal that jutted out from the centre of his chest was still present, rising and falling in time with every shaky breath. Rocket had made some murmurs about attempting to extract some of the smaller slivers of cold, cold metal from his body, so that at least the sucker stands a chance.
Drax barely heard this, despite the overwhelming quiet. Instead he turned away from the prone figure of his captain, muttered something about 'going to the control room to check on any potential traffic' and left without another syllable.
He had never liked silence. Silence has taken his wife, his child. And now it was threatening to take one of his only friends in the universe. That was something he could not handle seeing. Not ever. Not yet.
He was Groot. He is Groot. He will always be Groot.
Three simple facts that he had always been aware of. Of course, he was aware of so much more. Much more than anyone could ever imagine. He was a creature of vast sentience, able to think, feel, dream, create, you name it. Since he wasn't able to verbalise much, Groot was more of a listener than a lecturer.
People mistook this for him being simple. In some ways, maybe he was. But there were some aspects in which his intuition could never be paralleled. He noticed things that everyone else missed. He could honest discern between the honest and the dishonest upon one glance. Able to tell what people were feeling just by one look into their eyes.
So, he was one of the first to know how much Peter cared. He might have initially obscured himself behind the mask of being a Ravager, but he cared so bad. He claimed to be a criminal, but so was Groot, and he tried as often as he could to be gentle and benign. Being the accomplice to a cybernetic Halfworlder with a penchant for ballistics might have been an unusual route for a being that prided itself in its kindness, but he did so because he could read in his eyes how lonely Rocket was. Lonely and scared. How could he refuse?
Groot cared for Peter Quill, and his new teammates. When he blanketed them in his body, knowing full well that it could result in his demise. He had done it to save them because of the compassion he felt for them.
We are Groot. The most important thing he had ever said in his life, crammed with so many feelings and wishes and memories that he didn't know how to verbalise until now. Until they had shown him the way.
Peter Quill and his new team had given him those words, and Groot would be eternally thankful. Especially now that they've kept by his side (or pot) all throughout his second chance at life. Groot tried as hard and as often as he could to demonstrate to his team- his friends- just how grateful he was. Sprouting buds that bloomed into magnificent blossoms that brought a rare smile to Gamora's lips. Finally allowing Drax to observe his rhythmic sways to Quill's curious Terran melodies. Sharing sympathetic remarks with Rocket- who continued to be the only one who could comprehend his verbalisations- when his ally muttered darkly about the 'stupid fricking Nova Core' and their 'ungrateful fucking attitudes. Just because I shot a couple of Badoon in their empty skulls don't mean it's a crime. They're Badoon, they don't count. If anything, I was doing 'em a favour. Badoon are ugly as fuck, right Groot?'
Throughout Groot's (re)development, Peter Quill was there. Always. He would see Groot tentatively moving in time with a song whilst confined to his pot, and would turn up the music system even louder with a grin plastered across his face. He would cheer every time Groot tested his new vocal cords to success, despite the occasional pitiful squeaks that were made. And sometimes, he would just lean back lazily in his chair and talk to Groot for hours on end. He knew Groot was more of a listener than a speaker, and didn't seem to mind. Peter shared stories of all of his misadventures when he was leagued with the Ravagers, of the months upon months he spent scouring every inch of the galaxy, the songs he heard, the faces he saw, the food he ate. Occasionally, he would reminisce about Terra and the people he left behind there all those years ago. Groot noticed that whenever Peter's words focused on life before the Ravagers, his voice softened to the point where it was no more than a meagre whisper. But Groot didn't care. He sat content and happy in his pot, entranced by the intricate webs of Peter's stories and drinking in every last word that left his mouth.
The moment he witnessed his leader crumple to the dirt like a toppled idol, Groot wished more than ever before that he was able to master the complexities of linguistics. He wanted to shout, scream, beg him not to die. But he couldn't. So instead, Groot had gathered Peter Quill in his arms and lifted him into the air, as if the action alone would cauterise the gaping lacerations in the man's frame and return all the colour to his grey skin.
"I'm so screwed," Peter had mumbled, drunk on blood loss and the tendrils of unconsciousness that threatened to steal his awareness. Groot had wanted to tell Peter that he was going to be fine, to whisper meaningless words of positivity to calm his dread. But of course he couldn't. So had to make do with the few words he had been given, and place as much serenity and soothingness behind them as possible. He hoped with all of his being that the bleeding man held in his arms had got the message prior to passing out a few moments later.
Groot's arms were slippery with Peter's blood, but he couldn't muster the will to care. All that mattered to him was the broken Star-Lord that he cradled, with the life dripping out of him more and more with every second.
They'd been travelling for nearly 2 hours now. Peter was still arranged lopsidedly across the musty sofa, glazed with a thin coating of dust, that Groot had deposited him on delicately as soon as he'd been brought on the ship. He lay completely devoid of sound other than laboured breathing, face and closed eyelids smeared with a sickening sheen, mouth slightly agape. Gamora was perched on the arm of the settee directly above where Peter's head had been lain. Other than for a few occasions where she took her deadly and cybernetically-enhanced hand and ran it tenderly across his sweat drenched forehead, she remained stoic and still but ever-present. Rocket was moving but occupied, having busied himself with the task of preparing various mean-looking metallic instruments with the intention of tweezing some of the splinters of steel that had entombed themselves in Peter's shoulder, prior to throwing himself in front of the route of a shatter-grenade.
Drax had exited the room long ago with the supposed intention of ensuring they were on course. Obviously, Groot knew that wasn't the true reason. Drax hated seeing Peter so vulnerable and prone. It wasn't because he was appalled by his weakness, it was because he wasn't used to seeing a friend and not an enemy on the receiving end of such severe pain.
Groot wasn't so easily phased. Sure, he'd inflicted some dreadful wounds on others before but that didn't mean he was a stranger to consoling. All he had to do was think back to the early days, when Rocket had only been sentient and free from the restraints and scalpels and pain he had known his entire life for a matter of weeks. If he focused hard enough, he can still hear the obscene screams that tore his Halfworlder companion from his nightmares night, and how he would grasp him to his hard wooden chest until his cries died down into pitiful whimpers. It was all he could do to help back then. And it's all he can do now.
A soft moan. Rocket had begun his handiwork, digging through Peter's shoulder as gingerly as one could in the situation at present. And naturally, for the first time in over an hour, their felled leader was beginning to rouse. Groot watched as Peter weakly jolted the shoulder in question, squeezing his eyes further shut to the point where it must have been agonising. The moans continued to be released from his throat. Rocket cursed under his breath.
"Friggin' idiot's gonna tear himself a new one if he don't stop movin' soon," he hissed breathlessly, concentration brimming in his eyes. Gamora didn't say a word in response. She simply gazed wordlessly at Peter's pained face, as if she had been struck dumb by fear. Or maybe adoration.
Groot knew it was down to him to act, then. He placed a reassuring arm on Peter's good shoulder, prompting his eyes to snap open. He gawked at his face, but Groot could tell that his awareness was far and few between. His eyes, although open and registering a presence, were foggy with delirium and fatigue. He wouldn't remember any of this when he awoke later. If he woke up.
No. Groot would not allow himself a millisecond to think that way. What the future held didn't matter in the slightest to him. All that mattered right now, the only thing in the universe that could matter, was the man before him with a hunk of metal buried in his ribcage and the hurt in his eyes. He had to distract him from the pain.
So Groot placed a clenched hand beside Peter's head and slowly, oh so slowly, unfurled it. Releasing the collective of little globules of light into the air. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, only this time shrunken into the size of a grain of sand. Dancing and pirouetting before Peter's glassy gaze, colliding gracefully with one another and merging before splitting once more. With these beads of light, Groot displayed to Peter Quill the gratitude for their meeting on that fateful day on Xandar, for providing him a family worth giving his life for, for all those lazy nights spent murmuring one memory after another. For all of those stories, for all their intricacies and beauty and emotions and honesty.
Thank you, Peter Quill.
Peter's struggles ceased. Those bleary eyes remained open, watching each and every tiny orb of light as it gave its dance. Completely entranced and all pain forgotten, despite Rocket continuing to rummage for splinters in his shoulder.
Groot couldn't tell how long this went on for. For all he knew, the light dance lasted an infinity. Until Peter's control over his eyelids laxed and they gradually began to slide shut, as if the lightdrops were gently lulling him to sleep. Eventually they closed completely, and his head drooped slowly to the side.
Groot called his luminous droplets back into his palm, extinguishing their leaps and twirls. The light dance was over.
It was then that it dawned on him how mute the atmosphere around him was. Looking up, he saw Gamora staring open-mouthed at him as if words had failed her. Rocket, although otherwise preoccupied by the debris near Peter's collarbone, also had a look of surprise and relief plastered across his face. Drax had at some point returned to the room, and gazed wordlessly at Groot at the hand that once held the tiny orbs of sun.
No one said a word. But then again, no one needed to. Just like how no one needed to question Groot about his actions, and why he did what he did. It was the m
They were Groot. They are Groot. They will always be Groot.
Freakin' humies. Impulsive jackasses, the lot of them. Especially this particular impulsive jackass who couldn't seem to comprehend that a shatter-grenade advancing towards them meant 'look, danger, get out of the way', not 'time to show everyone how awesome and brave I am by blowing my ass off.' Friggin' moron.
Rocket couldn't think about these thoughts too often, or he'd simply get swept up in a perpetual state of annoyance, infuriation and panic. And when Rocket was panicked, he forgot how to function. Not exactly the ideal thing to happen when you're meant to be relieving a blood-pulsating shoulder of a cluster of shrapnel with a pair of tweezers, a spare knife and sheer will.
I'm too sober to be doing this, he thought to himself bitterly as he tugged at a particularly wicked looked shard of metal that was jutting out from his subject's collarbone. No, not 'subject'. Peter. Peter's collarbone. Peter the asshole, who thought just because he was a dab hand at giving heartfelt speeches and owned a flashy leather coat was impervious to thousands of airborne lumps of metal travelling at ludicrous speeds. The asshole who was currently bleeding half to death all over his funky-smelling couch.
Well, that wasn't 100% true. More like 50% now. The biggest and most batshit-crazy hole in his body (other than his mouth), still partially corked up on account of the slab of metal that filled it, seemed to have stopped bleeding. Rocket hoped that was a good sign. He certainly wasn't a doctor or any of that medical crap. He was a tinkerer, simple as, so the only talent he could bring to the table was that he knew his way around a pair of tweezers and had learned through trial and error how to carefully remove unwanted bits and pieces from things. That, combined with his rough comprehension of the Terran anatomy, made him the most desirable candidate for the task of pulling all of those pieces of metal from his shoulder.
"Better that's taken care of earlier, so we don't have to worry as much about infection," Gamora had stated bluntly. No one bothered to protest; they all knew how right she was this time.
Tug. Rocket gritted his teeth. This particular shard was stuck. Probably caught in a vein or something. The sooner he got this over with, the better. Sending a silent prayer to whatever deities or forces or whatever that might be watching over them, he inhaled deeply and then pulled.
Peter didn't cry out or scream or curse his gods. He was probably too far gone, mind. Hadn't been conscious since Groot's little light show (which was freakin' incredible. Not that he'd ever admit it to any living creature). But no one could miss the way his brow tightened, the way is breathing became more frantic, the way his back tensed against the couch beneath him. Gamora- holyshitshewasstillhere?- immediately placed a hand on his clammy forehead (gross...), rubbing her thumb along his temple reassuringly as she whispered useless encouragements.
"It's okay, you're okay. You're just fine. Go back to sleep."
Rocket couldn't help but smirk to himself. Just teammates my ass.
Thwip. The splinter finally released its clutches on the inside of Peter's shoulder, with a sickening pop. Grimacing, Rocket dropped it into the dish that contained all the other excavated pieces and went back to inspecting the rest of the war zone of a body part. Seemed decent. Well, as decent as it would be given the circumstances. Still bloody and decrepit, but no more shrapnel in sight. Job well done.
"Just going to dress it," he muttered, to no one in particular. No response. Figures.
Rocket was beginning the laborious task of ripping up sheets of bandages with his teeth as Peter stirred. Everyone stopped breathing as Peter moaned and tossed his head woozily to the side, sluggishly peeling open his eyes. Don't you fuckin' dare ruin my work.
"Don't move," Gamora whispered to him as firmly as she could manage. All Peter did was gawp dumbly at her face, lethargy decorating his features. Fuck. He looked like a child.
"Mom," he rasped, and that's when Rocket's cybernetically altered heart froze in place, "I did it... I amounted to great things. I'm a good person."
Okay, now he was scared. Petrified, even. Peter was out of his mind. Infection it was then.
Rocket pretended not to hear the choked sob that escaped Gamora's mouth. It was the least he could do.
"He's delirious," Rocket offered pitifully, as if it would make a difference, "Doesn't know what he's saying."
"I am Groot." That's right, Groot, work your magic. Maybe give him another frickin' lightshow. Whatever. Just shut him up.
What terrified Rocket the most was how familiar this all was to him. Waking up to find yourself staring at a cold metal ceiling, feeling like your bones were pumped full of lead and a stream of blood running down from these strange new holes in your body. The world around you a haze of colours and shapes that swirled and interlocked and danced before your eyes. Seeing things.
Hell, Rocket's first few weeks of sentience was an ongoing collection of these experiences. Only then he didn't have anyone to stroke his brow and reassure him that everything would all be okay.
No. He didn't think about Before anymore. He couldn't if he wanted to stay as sane as he was capable of being. And right now, Peter needed his help. He might be an ugly Terran jackass, but he was his... friend.
Ugh. He'd turned all mushy. Quill would never let him hear the end of this.
A jolt reverberated throughout the body of the Milano. Turbulence. Or...
Rocket peered out the window to his right. Yes! That was the Xandar skyline.
Peter didn't seem to understand the this sudden lurch was the signal of his salvation. Instead he threw back his head and released a pitiful wail, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.
"Peter, it's okay, you're okay, just stay with us." Gamora. Begging. That sure as hell didn't sound like the Gamora he knew. Peter sure had done a number on her.
"I'm sorry," Peter mumbled thickly. And the scary part was, he truly sounded like he meant it. Like he thought it was going to be the last thing he ever could say to them.
Rocket was about to take Peter's sweaty face in his paws and beat some sense into him, that he wasn't going to die, that if he died there and then like a little bitch he was definitely going to kick him in the balls for all eternity when he met him in whatever afterlife there was. But he stopped himself, when he saw that Peter had already gone and passed out again. Fucking fabulous.
As the ship began it's too slow descent to Xandar's surface, no one uttered a word. There was nothing to say that was different to what they were all thinking.
Peter Quill might be a complete humie jackass, but he was Rocket's jackass. He was their humie jackass.
C'mon, Quill. Don't be a pussy. Just... hang in there.
There was no denying it. Gamora had gone soft.
If anyone a year ago had informed the cold-blooded assassin daughter of Thanos, the scourge of the galaxy, that in the near future she would be staying stoically at the bedside of a maimed and broken Ravager outlaw with a fetish for stealing things that gleamed in the starlight, she would have laughed right in their face. Before probably decapitating, to appease her adoptive father.
I'm meant to be the deadliest woman in the galaxy, she thought bitterly to herself, I shouldn't be here. I'm not meant to be playing nurse at an outlaw's bedside. But no matter how many times she attempted to fool herself into thinking otherwise, how many times she lied to herself in vain, there was no escaping the truth.
She loved Peter Quill. Peter Quill, the stupid idiot who had thought he could save her life 5 days ago (had it already been 5 days?) What kind of imbecile forgot that his teammate had cybernetic enhancements that provided her with peak endurance? What kind of moron thought that a suave leather jacket was enough to protect him from the biting impact of thousands of shards of deadly metal.
The Peter Quill kind of idiot. The special kind of idiot that made her heart turn in on itself every time he sighed in his sleep. The special kind of idiot whose sleepy smirk when he had woken up just yesterday had forced her to violently swallow back her feelings to prevent herself from clutching his face in her hands and planting a kiss on his stupid lips. The special kind of idiot that was talking to her right now about something as trivial as when are they going to take this thing off my thumb? It's tight as hell.
"When the holes in your chest heal enough for you to not need it to survive any longer," she snapped shortly. Don't talk anymore, I can't feel this way about you, I shouldn't-
Peter frowned. "What's wrong, Gamora?" That's strange. He didn't sound angry or irritated. Simply... hurt.
I didn't mean for him to be hurt. He's had enough of that recently as it is. Too much. Gamora sighed deeply.
"Just... nothing." She paused again. "Ask no questions and you'll be told no lies."
Silence. So silent that Gamora swore she could hear the buzz of Peter's thoughts in his head as he picked at one of the numerous IV lines plugged into his vein. What with the rest of their teammates absent for the time being (Drax had gone to give an official report to the Nova Corps about the events on Deo, Rocket had most likely gone to tinker with Peter's ship while he didn't care too much and Groot was probably arranging flowers in Peter's bedroom on board the Milano- he was nice like that), Gamora and Peter had had to became accustomed to these frequent and pregnant pauses. There was nothing Gamora had to say. And whatever Peter said was bound to make her fall in love with him even more. Peter was warmth, she was steel. They weren't compatible. She wasn't compatible with anyone.
"Gamora, I'm truly sorry about Deo," Peter blurted out without warning. Gamora almost leapt from her skin.
Well, she wasn't expecting that.
"What do you mean?" she probed slowly, not quite meeting his eye. Peter rubbed his hands together obsessively, to the point where she was expecting him to sand them right down to the bone.
"I shouldn't have thrown myself in the way," he continued softly, "I just-I just- I saw it, and I didn't think and-and-and..." he trailed off at the end.
Well, that was unusual. Peter always finished what he'd started. Was he... nervous?
"It's fine," Gamora said as softly as she could muster. Then she allowed herself to meet his eyes.
Whoosh.
Yes. She was done for.
Peter's eyebrow raised slightly. "Are you blushing?"
Gamora couldn't spit out a response.
"Look, I really am so sorry, I want to make it up to you," he began to babble, eyes wide with anxiety, "I was an asshole and a moron and I didn't think, I just didn't think, because I saw you there and I-I- I couldn't just let you-"
Peter didn't finish this sentence either. And not because he'd lost his train of thought.
Because Gamora had leant over and met his lips with hers.
He was warm, soft. Even having spent a few days confined to a hospital bed, he still had that unmistakable scent of leather about him. Leather and oil and grass and, for some reason, springtime on her home planet.
After an eternity, they parted. They gazed into each others eyes, as if it would be the last chance either had to drink in one another.
Then Peter smiled. Not his usual sly smirk, the one that was the mask of his Ravager bravado. A true smile that spread across his face like hot butter and met his eyes. Those beautiful, gorgeous, alive eyes. He was alive. He was run through by a spear of shrapnel and yet he's alive.
And something bizarre happened.
Gamora smiled too.
How Thanos would despise to see her this way. And she loved it.
He was warmth and leather and oil and grass and springtime on her home planet.
She was steel and wind and power and the sun that blazed red during autumn nights on Terra (well, so Peter claimed).
They loved each other. He loved Gamora.
Springtime and autumn, together as one.
I was very interested in exploring the other characters properly, rather than just Peter, and their psyches. So I felt that this story was a good way to do so. Groot was without a doubt the most challenging to write- how do you express the thoughts of someone who only ever speaks four words? Very difficultly, that's how!
Apologies for any typos or grammatical/spelling errors- I haven't had the chance to get a beta reader yet, so if you notice any mistakes please let me know and I'll fix them! Apologies for the cheesy ending, but again I just didn't know how to end it!
Once again, thank you all so much.
