DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
Thanks to and diarmour for their reviews and the soundtrack (I love Linkin Park too) to all the people who faved/followed this fic. You guys are amazing!
Warnings: this chapter contains angst, implied gore, hints of PTSD and some light sexual content.
Notice: I will be on holiday with limited PC access next week, so I will not be able to post a chapter on Monday as usual. See you all in two weeks.
Enjoy, and please don't shout at me!
"Hold still, young man. I don't want to hurt you." the middle-aged Spartoi nurse says.
Ronan can feel his gloved hands brush against his face as he peels off the tape holding the gauze pads in place over his eyes, slow and careful. He is suddenly very glad of not having any hair, facial or otherwise.
A gust of cool air hits his closed eyelids. It feels strange, after so many days.
"All done. - the nurse announces - You can open your eyes, if you want." he adds encouragingly.
Ronan does. The lights have been dimmed to minimise his discomfort, but after nearly a week spent in darkness, even that dim light is overpowering. His eyes sting from the light and start to water and he is forced to shield them with a hand, cursing quietly. It will take a bit of time to adapt back to the light.
The burns on his face have been itching for days now, ever since the doctor stopped dosing him with enough painkillers to put down a horse, and the salt from his tears is only making it worse.
Ronan forces himself to calm down and ignore the temptation to scratch them.
His vision is blurry with tears.
He blinks repeatedly and tentatively takes away his shielding hand for another attempt.
The light seems still a bit too bright, but he can endure it now, and what he sees is reward enough for any discomfort to fade into nothingness.
Gamora and Peter, both smiling, both beautiful as dawn. He couldn't have chosen anything fairer to gaze upon.
"How does it feel? - the nurse asks - Any discomfort? Any trouble with your sight?"
Ronan turns towards the man, bald and squat, but with a very kind smile, and shakes his head.
"Everything seems to be in working order." he replies.
The man nods and points towards a panel on the wall.
"Can you tell me what the first symbol of the fourth row is?" he asks.
Ronan obliges him, answering to all his questions and even letting him shine a strong light in his eyes to examine his fundus, then finally the nurse declares him as good as new.
"At least your vision is none worse for the wear." the nurse says. His gaze shifts towards his face and drops again.
Ronan nods and thanks him, pretending he hasn't noticed anything.
The doctor told him earlier that he will make a full recovery, that his ability to fight will be unaffected by the burns once they scar over completely, and now he knows that his sight is equally unscathed. That is all he needs to be able to fight against Thanos, he tells himself, but even if it makes him feel vain and shallow, he cannot help wondering about... the rest.
He had always known that he would have scars from what Everyman did to him, and he had thought he didn't care. He cared that his meryw were alive, he cared that they were whole and uninjured, and then that he was fit to rejoin the fight. He had thought of survival, not of the aftermath. Now that those immediate worries are all laid to rest, he is discovering that he does care about his scars instead.
He vaguely remembers being covered in them, after the Great Fire, blue-black scars, ridges and patches all over his face and body, intercalated by smoother, lighter areas where cultured skin had been grafted over his ruined flesh. He remembers catching a reflection of himself and recoiling in horror and disgust.
He doesn't want for his meryw to feel like that when they look at him.
He has never really considered himself handsome, but it pleased him that they did, and now it pains him to think that they won't look at him the same way. No matter how superficial it might seem, it feels like he has lost something important, that what happened will end up putting a strain on the fragile, beautiful thing they have.
With greeting and a final string of recommendations, the nurse finally leaves the room, but the unease remains, thick and suffocating.
Gamora and Peter are looking at him with studiously neutral, guarded expressions. The silence stretches.
"We should get going. - Ronan says finally - The Council will soon convene for the hearing." he adds, dangling his legs out of the bed.
He has been walking with assistance for two days already, dragging that thrice damned drip-and-stand all over the corridor to get some exercise. The doctor disconnected him from the blasted thing earlier in the morning. There is no reason for him not to stand up and resume his normal life.
The world spins a bit at first, and he wobbles, but soon regains his balance. It is nothing, so he gently pushes Peter away when he tries to support him. He is whole. Nearly healed, despite the aesthetics. He doesn't want them to see him as pitiful.
"You have brought some clothes, haven't you?" he asks over his shoulder, shuffling towards the small table where most of his things have been piled up.
He starts rifling through the various bags and packets, until Gamora's hand closes around his wrist, just below the bandages covering the burns on his right forearm.
"There is something wrong with you." she says, not asks. She knows him too well for his own good.
"What is it?" she asks.
"It is nothing. I am fine." he replies, trying to free himself.
People have died or have been seriously, permanently injured in the battle of the Temple, he tells himself. He is not entitled to commiserate himself for something that is, literally, only skin-deep. He should just get his act together and carry on.
"You know you are a terrible liar, don't you, bluebell?" Peter chimes in. His voice is gentle and subdued and his hand is warm on his shoulder.
"You don't need to hide from us." Gamora whispers.
"Don't I?" Ronan asks, a lot more brusquely than he meant to.
"You haven't looked, have you? - Peter asks quietly - You haven't asked for a mirror, and you've been looking away from any reflective surface ever since they took the bandages off your face." he adds. At times Ronan forgets how smart and observant Peter is under the goofy façade.
"What if I did? Can you blame me?" Ronan retorts angrily, turning to face him. He overdoes it and stumbles, nearly falls.
Peter catches him, it seems like he always will.
"No, bluebell, of course not. It's understandable that you are upset, I mean, it's an awful lot to take in.- Peter says, a sad sort of gentleness in his voice and in the touch of his hands on his bare skin - It's hard for you, I know, but it doesn't need to be any harder than it already is. Don't cut us off. Talk to us. Let us help. That's all we are asking." he adds, and his unconditional support makes Ronan feel at the same time stronger and unable to let go of him.
"These don't change anything between us." Gamora whispers, slipping inside their embrace. Her fingers trace the edge of the wounds from top to bottom with gentle determination and just the right amount of pressure for the hypersensitive flesh to send through him jolts of pure, raw sensation instead of pain. His breath hitches involuntarily.
"It pains me to see you in pain, but I feel no horror when I look at you. - she adds - It just looks like you are wearing your old warpaint, only it's a bit more... permanent." she concludes.
Her hand slides down his face once more, and this time he doesn't quite manage to repress a helpless little whimper. That feeling, at the edge of pleasure and pain, just does it for him, and his until-then limp manhood, suddenly jumps to startled attention.
"Highly appropriate, then. We are going to war, after all..." he manages to say, low and hoarse.
Gamora kisses any further words away from his lips.
"Yes, we are. All of us together, like we promised each other. - she says - These will fade, in time. What we feel for you won't." she promises.
"And, to be honest, you're still damn sexy like this. - Peter butts in with a crooked smile before Ronan can reply - I mean, slightly more menacing than usual, but still very, very sexy." he adds, nuzzling into his neck and giving him a light love-bite.
"In fact, you are so sexy that, if we weren't already late for the hearing, I'd show you little your scars bother me." he adds. His hands slide down from his shoulders, and Ronan is acutely and pleasantly reminded of the fact that he is wearing only bandages and nothing else.
Peter is looking straight to his face, and in his gaze Ronan cannot see even a bit of disgust or pity.
Peter cares for him, worries for him, and still wants him in spite of everything.
Suddenly he feels like laughing and crying at the same time. His worries seem so stupid and unfounded, that he doesn't understand how he could have even entertained them for a moment, how he could have doubted them.
Peter's hands sneak lower still and Ronan is tempted to let him touch him however he likes, but they are already running slightly late, and he needs his wits about him for the hearing, while Peter's touch is sure to leave him pleasantly worn out for quite a while.
"Later..." he whispers, stopping his meri's hand with his own just before the target. His manhood twitches in frustrated need, but Ronan ignores it and lifts Peter's hand to his lips, kissing his palm and the inside of his wrist.
"Later, when we are in our bed and no one is waiting outside of the door to escort us anywhere..." he adds softly, shifting his gaze towards Gamora even as he turns Peter's hand around and starts to kiss his knuckles.
Peter's eyes flutter closed and his breath hitches, just like that, and for a split second, Ronan doesn't really care that outside the door there are several Pretorians who would overhear exactly everything if they try to do anything, as long as Peter can be inside him, or he can be inside Gamora, or preferably both things can happen at the same time, but it is just a moment, and somehow he manages to let go of Peter and put at least a token distance between them.
"We need to stop this." he gasps. His body has grown accustomed to the rythms of the life he leads with Peter and Gamora, and now, after a week of feeling too rubbish and too worried, it is surging back to life with a vengeance and the soft, openly lustful look Gamora is giving him is not helping his self-control either.
"Clothes, please?" he proposes.
Gamora blinks slowly and shakes her head.
"Yes, of course... - she replies with a hint of embarrassment - Here." she adds, pushing a big paper bag towards him.
Ronan sits on the bed and carefully unpacks, laying the clothes on the bed.
The undershirt is brand new, the fabric is soft and it is open down the front so he won't have to lift his arms and put more strain on his scars to don it.
The trousers are also new, dark blue with subtle red accents, as is the hoodie, but at the bottom of the bag there are his old combat boots and the leather jacket he took from the Xandarian ship, worn and soft and pretty much a part of him now.
Practical clothes and thoughtful choices, meant to make him to feel comfortable.
"Thank you." he says.
Gamora smiles and nods.
"Want any help to put them on?" Peter asks, pushing his luck as usual.
"Maybe..." Ronan retorts teasingly.
Peter and, quite surprisingly, Gamora too, tease him right back as they help him, with light fingers, lips and tongues.
By the time he is fully dressed, Ronan feels very warm, awake and alive, and very grateful to be so.
He pulls up his hood and picks up Keenblade, and with discreet help from his meryw, walks out of the hospital room.