There's a pretty big time jump in this chapter, so just for clarification: This Drax POV takes place approximately one year after he first caught Peter in the process of miscarrying.
[Drax]
Something is wrong with Peter. And whatever it is, I am certain that losing the baby has something to do with it. But that was almost a year ago, I can't understand why he won't at least discuss it with me. He has taken to curling up on the edge of our bed, refusing to allow me to hold him as he sleeps. I don't like that at all. I long to reassure him, tell him that if he truly wants a child this badly, we can try again. But he hasn't allowed me to touch him in weeks, and we can't conceive if he won't let me make love to him. Besides, I quite enjoy keeping him close to me while we sleep; I feel a constant need to protect him.
But Peter won't let me protect him anymore. He avoids me, refuses to speak to me unless absolutely necessary, and—this is by far the most worrying—rejects physical contact. Not only the sexual type (though that itself is quite unsettling; the Peter Quill I used to know would never turn down sex) but any sort of contact. When we landed on Xandar a few days ago I tried to hold his hand and he responded by darting around to stand on Gamora's other side so I could not reach him.
It has been slow, this transition from love to indifference. He has been gradually closing me out over the course of about six months now. At first I pretended not to notice, thinking it was a phase, thinking he needed time. But now I know better. This is no phase. For weeks now he has avoided me, and for weeks he has refused the sympathy and affection of anyone, not just me, but every member of our team as well. I wish I knew why.
I can only assume I have done something wrong. I think back around the time he truly stopped speaking to me. I remember the night he turned the volume of his audio player so high that Gamora beat on the bathroom door and shouted that perhaps he enjoyed music in the shower, but the rest of the team was trying to sleep. That was odd, because usually he will turn the volume down when asked. But that night, he refused. Gamora was ready to tear down the door. Having been asked not to, I couldn't very well tell her why Peter might need his music more than usual, but I did convince her to leave the ship unmaimed.
A few nights after this I pushed him into our room and asked why he'd felt the need to treat us all to the sounds of his audio player at ten o'clock at night, three nights in a row. He avoided the question. I didn't like that, but he found certain ways to distract me, and since he was acting somewhat reticent around me—though not nearly as much as he is now—I welcomed his attentions. That was the last time he allowed me to make love to him before he began to truly push me away. And he was quite vocal about his enjoyment that night (so much so, in fact, that the next day Rocket demanded we let him go into a hardware station so he could get the supplies to soundproof our bedroom door), so if I have somehow committed any offense, that wasn't when I did it.
I know better than anyone here the pain of losing a child. But I also know Peter. I know him quite well, and this is very unlike him. Events that would have others weeping on the floor seem to have little effect on him. He is, in most situations, quite brave. I think back to the evening we met, in the Kyln—few others would have dared to approach me, to interrupt a sure kill. But he did. He came forward, spoke for the woman, prevented me from making a terrible mistake. I was too angry that night to express it, but I was impressed by his courage.
But he doesn't seem so courageous now. One morning he comes out of our room with dark circles under his red eyes. He is pale as the linens and looks as if he hasn't bathed for a week, and as far as I know, he hasn't. His clothes are wrinkled; last night he didn't even change from day clothes to pajamas. I look around the breakfast table. Gamora is composed as usual, but I notice her sneaking short, quick looks at him when he isn't looking at her. Groot looks as worried as it's possible for a tree to look. He gives Peter a long, sympathetic stare, and then says cautiously, "I am Groot?"
"He wants to know why you look like crap," Rocket translates. "And quite frankly, so do I. What the hell happened to you? Seriously, Quill, you look like a bucket of fuck that's been stepped in, knocked over, and tracked to infinity."
Before I can appropriately break down, analyze, and question what Rocket has just said, Peter gives him a look of such loathing that even I feel I would not like to be on the other end of it. "Shut the fuck up, Rocket," he growls.
Rocket puts up his hands defensively. "Hey, just asking. Did someone break your music thingy? Is that why you're so pouty? Or is lover-boy here just not putting out at the rate you'd like?"
Peter drops into the seat between me and Groot. "Maybe you didn't hear me, Rocket," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "But I said, very clearly, shut the fuck up. I know that's pretty complicated for a rodent like yourself to comprehend, but let me just say it one more time, maybe this time you'll understand: Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
For a moment, everyone is silent. I know I am not the only one who is shocked by what Peter has just said. He has never said anything so cruel to Rocket before. Everyone is aware that "rodent" is about the worst name one can call Rocket. In fact, Peter is the first to defend Rocket against such cruelty. Never before has he instigated it.
Slowly, Rocket puts down the spoon he was holding. Now he looks at Peter and bares his teeth. "I'm sorry, what did you just call me?"
Groot, sensing trouble, crawls up on the table, effectively separating Peter and Rocket. "I am Groot," he says urgently, wrapping a single branch around Rocket to keep him from lunging across the table. "I am Groot!" he repeats frantically when Rocket thrashes against the branch, nearly kicking Gamora out of her seat.
"I don't care if he didn't mean it! He's still gonna pay!" Rocket shouts, struggling furiously against the branch holding him in place.
"Get him out of here, Groot," Gamora orders calmly, rising to her feet. "Peter, you'd better tell us what's going on and you'd better do it now, or I might let Rocket give you what you deserve."
Peter lets out a short, harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh, believe me, Gamora. He could kick my ass up between my ears and still not give me everything I deserve."
Everyone quiets at that. Even Rocket stops thrashing. I turn to my lover, unable to process what I have just heard; what could he possibly mean by that? "First of all, how could he relocate your buttocks to your head?" Gamora gives me an odd look. All right, she is correct, that's hardly the most pressing matter, but it certainly was an odd choice of words. "And second, how could a single beating from Rocket not compensate for whatever wrongs you believe you have committed?"
Peter doesn't answer. He stares hard at the tabletop. I am used to his refusal to look me directly in the face by now, but it still pains me that he won't even acknowledge my presence.
"I am Groot?" Groot says softly, and I see his grip on Rocket start to slacken.
Rocket wriggles out of the branch and drops onto the floor. "Yeah, what do you mean, Peter? Not that I won't gladly take the opportunity to kick your ass, but why?"
Peter still doesn't say anything, but he sneaks a look at me, and suddenly I understand. He hasn't been avoiding me because I offended him. He has been avoiding me because he thinks that he, somehow, has offended me. But how could he think that, when I have been trying for months now to coax him back to me?
I decide to take the risk. Very carefully, I reach up and lay my hand on his shoulder, touching him as gently as I can. "Peter," I begin, not even sure what I will say, but thinking that anything could be better than nothing—
But before I can form a single sentence, Peter violently jerks himself out of my grip. "Don't touch me," he snarls. But this maneuver, I can see, is more defensive than truly angry. For what reasons I cannot comprehend, Peter has decided-his remarks about deserving a beating made this quite clear-that he has no right to be loved.
And that, well…that just isn't right with me.
He stands up, knocking his chair over. Groot, sensing the danger, leaps up and takes Rocket into his arms again. Gamora goes for her knife, and I see why: no one knows what Peter will do next.
And what he does next is turn on me. I can't say I didn't expect it. "What are you even still doing with me?" he demands. "I think I've made it pretty fucking obvious, as I know I have to do with you because you're too fucking stupid to take a hint, that I want you to just go the hell away! Have I not been clear on that? Because if I haven't, let me repeat, I don't want—"
But he doesn't finish. He crumbles. Drops back into the chair and curls into a ball, and I'm fairly certain that any passersby could hear his excruciating sobs as they drift by the Milano. Gamora, Rocket, and even Groot look alarmed. I'm not sure what to do; I am not used to seeing Peter cry, but I know that crying is a better thing for him to do than insult and physically threaten all of us, so I sit back down beside him and, for the first time in weeks, wrap my arms around him. Gamora quickly ushers Groot and Rocket away, leaving me alone with Peter.
"I'm sorry," he moans as soon as we're alone. "God, Drax, I'm so fucking sorry…I didn't mean it, I swear, I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm trying, I'm trying so hard and I don't want you to stop wanting me but I…I can't…I can't be what you need, I should just go, I should leave, I should—"
"What you should do is, stop telling me to go away and let me hold you," I tell him, and he does as I say, and it hurts me to see him cry like this, but it feels wonderful to have him in my arms again. I pull him close and rock him like a child until he stops crying, and when he quiets I say, "Now, tell me. What is it that you've done that you feel is so awful, that you believe I will stop loving you because of it?"
He pulls away and half-heartedly wipes his eyes on his shirtsleeve. "Nothing. I'm—I'm just being stupid. I'm sorry."
I'm not going to let him go that easily. "What do you mean you can't be what I need? How can you say such a thing as if it were a fact?"
He makes another attempt to dry his eyes. "I just—nothing. I'm not thinking clearly. I've been in a bad mood and I'm taking it out on everyone else. I'm sorry." As if apologizing repeatedly will clear up any confusion. He stands, but has to use the tabletop to push himself upright. I know he's weak, but I can't understand why; is he ill? He takes a few staggering steps away from the table and nearly falls. I leap up to catch him, but he has already steadied himself. "I need to go apologize to Rocket. I'll talk to you later, I swear."
Before I can stop him he has staggered across to the door. I wait for him to be just outside before I follow him. He doesn't see me, but I can see what he does: as soon as he thinks I'm not watching, he leans against the wall and rests one hand on his stomach, breathing hard. As his hand comes into contact with his abdomen a look of anger crosses his face, followed by intense sadness. I watch, and suddenly, I understand.
I know what this is about.
