("I promise," Happy says, begrudgingly, "I'll answer every text you send me. Just try not to go overboard with it.")
It's kind of weird, being on the Benatar. Mostly because he couldn't remember the initial visit he'd had to the ship when they left Titan all those months ago; it's kind of like going back to your elementary school classroom and having no memory of the place? But there's still this weird feeling of nostalgia, for something you know you were on but have no recollection of? It's really bizarre. But his awe is pretty quickly replaced by regret and panic and all kinds of terrible feelings he knows are extremely temporary — he looks out the windows and sees the inky blackness beyond, painted with stars that flicker-flash and remind him of isolation and death. He practices some of the meditation techniques Gamora and Bruce showed him, but his palms still sweat, and his stomach still churns.
But he can't give up; he has to face it all, or he'll never be okay. It's either sink or swim, and he's kicking his legs and flailing his hands until he can get to the shore. All of these panicked emotions are under the surface, hidden in the way his hand clenches around the armrest of his seat, or the way his voice is too quick and thready when he replies to anything aimed at him. The others are so calm. This is home to them, this never-ending expanse that threatens to engulf Peter whole—
He feels the too familiar foam covering of headphones as they come over the crown of his head and rest on either side, not for the first time. Fleetwood Mac croons in his ears as Quill carefully presses the zune into his hand; he had listened to this band a lot, over the last six months, because Big Pete had not hesitated to do this very thing again and again and again. Quill doesn't say anything — he just lets the music do the talking as he takes his mantle as captain in the front seat. Peter hums the words, and slowly, slowly, the vastness of space isn't quite as terrifying.
("You need to be more careful," Bucky says gruffly, "If you're gonna walk around the place, you need to at least know where steps are. C'mon.")
He'll survive.
They contact Nebula and let her know to meet them at the mountain, sending appropriate directions through the easiest jump points. It's all another language to Peter, the concept of giving directions in a place that is endless and without an up or down, without paved roads or road signs. Hesitantly, he pulls the headphones down to listen with keen interest, feeling a little less nauseous now that he's had time to adjust and reel himself in. "How far do you think it is, in — jumps? Is it gonna be a while?"
"Aaaah, 'bout two weeks to get there. Probably a little shorter to get back to your gross wet planet; the time and space thing is a little wonky, and we're tryin' to be covert since we've got a creepy death stone in the trunk," Rocket says. "You get somewhere slow, and you get somewhere fast, and you pray Quill doesn't bust out the same five songs for the whole trip."
Peter's brows raise. "My uncle used to be like that. I mean, he'd play a song he liked to death."
"Your uncle and Quill need to broaden their horizons."
Peter doesn't bother correcting Rocket about his uncle — sometimes he just forgets that not everyone knows he's without Ben now, and that's okay, because he'd rather not sour the easy-going mood in the ship. It's been hard on all of them, and they're all quietly worried, he can tell. Besides, he's calmed down a lot from his near panic attack, and it feels kind of nice and different, being able to talk about Ben like he's still alive. Anyways. He holds out the dented but functional music player he'd had in his gym bag, letting the dude hold it in his cute fuzzy hands. "That kinda comes over a Zune. The iPod Nano, fifth generation. It's got, like, over three-thousand songs on it. Most of it is stuff Ben likes, so I bet you guys'll like it, too."
Big Pete pokes his head out from seemingly nowhere. "IPod-what-now?"
They spend the next hour burning through the soundtrack to Oklahoma, funnily enough. Something about it sparks some sort of memory in Big Pete, and he seems happier than he has in a long while. "Oh, what a beautiful moooornin'," he sings, when Mantis is dozing in her seat and Rocket's vanished to work on something or another. "Oh, what a beautiful daaaay. I got a beautiful feelin' — everything's goin' my way."
"I am Groot," the petulant tree child grumbles.
"What do you mean? I have a wonderful singing voice," Quill replies.
("You could get better with time... You have that, you know. Time." Natasha says.)
Peter's eyes begin to drift shut, even despite his ever-present insomnia, and Drax nudges him into standing from one of the cockpit seats. He only just realizes an hour's time has passed and most of the others are gone to bed, now; Drax is left on guard with Groot, who has been flopped over in a chair playing a Gameboy for the last three hours. Peter can't help but get his own intense flashbacks to lazy Sundays with Ned's borrowed 3DS, and he smiles a little, wringing his hands as Drax motions him into one of the only open rooms with a bed.
He sits down, unties one shoe blearily, and then his breath catches in his throat.
This is Gamora's room.
Gamora's unbreakable, shimmering whetstone sits beside her sheathed Godslayer on the table. Little silly knick-knacks from other planets adorn the dresser, betraying the usually no-nonsense visage she usually wore. An antique postcard from some alien planet with lovingly scribbled messages from Big Pete is half-hidden in a book written in a language he can't read. Something about the room feels too sacred, and for a moment he imagines Quill barging in behind Drax with outrage in his eyes and a fist clenched to threaten. But no such thing happens; Drax just watches him with a sort of solemness, arms folded over his chest. He can tell Peter's stupefied, that he's confused why anyone would let him disrupt this untouched memorial.
"You were her friend in that place," Drax says. "It's only fitting you borrow her room, since there aren't any spares. At least until she is here to kick you out and force you to sleep on the table. Quill's only terms are that you don't disrupt anything in here. Or else he'll likely kick your ass. Or maybe punch it."
Peter's not sure what to say. He settles for a weak, "Thank you."
("I love you, too," Gamora whispers, "And I'll never, not once, forget that.")
He has a... really hard time getting back to sleep, and it's not just because he's in the room of a friend who may or may not be lost forever. Laying over the covers, he stares at the metal roofing and listens to the overly loud rumbles of machinery — of the gears and electronic pulses of energy firing off deep inside the vessel. The others probably can't hear it, but he does. He hears the living metal of what is the only thing keeping them from a painful asphyxiation in space. If someone blasted a hole in the ship, they could get sucked out. They could freeze over, blood vessels bursting — no dust, though. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, as long as it didn't hurt like it did before.
To try and keep his mind focused, he ticks off all the facts he's learned over the years about space. Most astronauts become two inches taller over time, in the pull of gravity. Black holes are formed from the deaths of humongous stars and are capable of traveling to different points; even the tiniest one could rip apart Earth's solar system. Oh — and if two pieces of the same type of metal touch out here, they will bond and be permanently stuck together. And in space, no one can hear you scream—
Okay, that last one was from a particular movie poster. He wonders if Quill watched Alien.
"Peter?" Mantis asks after him from the doorway. He sits up, probably looking pathetic at this point with how little he's actually dozed off in the last five hours (which felt more like one hour, maybe two max, but he can't keep track of time as well as he used to—). Mantis just smiles politely like she does so often, and offers like she has so many other times: "Would you like me to help you sleep?"
"... You help people sleep so much. Who helps you when you need to sleep?"
He doesn't expect a genuine answer to his little remark, but she's more than happy to deliver with zeal.
"Well... Drax makes me warm ziborthhog milk, sometimes!" Peter can't help but grow wide-eyed at that, making a mental note to ask about that particular... milk-giving?... alien creature later. Mantis adds, "And other times, Groot will make a hammock with his arms!"
He huffs a surprised but pleased breath.
It's nice to see they're still taking care of each other, here, that Gamora being gone didn't completely erase their spirits. It was something she worried about a lot, back in the soul oasis: that they weren't okay, and not just because of her being dead, but because of what had happened to all of them, save for Rocket. Dying isn't easy. When people came back after, it wasn't just a happy little ending complete with confetti and dancing. People were still suffering. People still had to cope with losses that were nearly impossible to describe. Mothers were being given newborns who had vanished from their arms. People were coming back to life, only to learn someone they cared about passed away in that time from an accident, from an illness, from old age.
Thanos did not save anyone from anything. He tortured an entire universe for two years and happily sat in some rice field, patting himself on the back.
Mantis just smiles a too-big smile, trying to distract Peter and his slow-growing frown. He realizes he's getting pulled back into his uglier thoughts, so he shakes his head, rubbing one eye.
"Sorry. I guess I kind of get in a mood."
"That is okay. It would be more concerning if you did not feel anything. Your emotions are healthy."
"Yeah, I guess that's true."
"Unless you are murderous and ravenous for blood. Maybe not as healthy."
He's startled into a laugh.
("You deserve to be here as much as any of us, Peter," Pepper says.)
Mantis puts her hand to his head, and it's so unfairly easy to fade to black when her power hits him, like a hammer composed of energy. It's a nice and restful sleep; so restful, in fact, that time flicks across the front screen of the phone he has nestled in the sheets. It drifts through hours by the minute, minutes by the second. Maybe his quietly gnawing fear had drained him more than he realized. Maybe he just needed someone to hit him upside the head with a frying pan, to fix it — or, you know, put him to sleep with a softer and way less bruising touch. Either way, as he peels his eyes open, he feels a little bit better. The sounds of the ship, they're not as stifling, and the cold metal that wraps around him — like a cocoon many sizes too big — isn't as intimidating. He misses having earth under his feet and buildings to sling across, but he'll be okay. He stretches, breathes, and wanders toward the bathroom.
As he goes, he passes by the others, who are... all weirdly solemn and not particularly talkative. The easy feeling in his gut clenches back into something concerned, but when he catches his reflection in the mirror and hears the sudden roaring laughter behind him, he nearly dies of embarrassment. An assortment of doodles cover his face, none particularly appealing or attractive, and he covers a penned-on mustache with a mortified hand.
"You guys!" he chirps indignantly.
Rocket twirls a sharpie in his paw smugly from where he's sitting at the table. Drax points and laughs, as is his specialty, Peter's come to learn.
Mantis steps out, looks at Peter, and is troubled for all the wrong reasons. "Little Peter, you don't need facial hair like Big Peter to be special. You are wonderful even without your ability to grow anything on your face!"
("I suppose I can accept us not being lost causes together," Wanda tells him. "Just promise me you will not go missing for so long again.")
Later in the week, Rocket lets him try some jet-pack armor on when they stop by a way station to replenish, and even if it kinda... chafes... it's still pretty cool to fly instead of swing for once. Not that he'd trade his way of things for the world; the sensation of free-falling into a swing? It's a kind of exhilaration that he never knew he'd wanted in his life. It makes him feel alive and powerful. But still. Jet-packs. It's cool. It's distracting. And when he accidentally falls a few stories, he doesn't super die. Spider powers are handy like that, but everyone still had a hell of a time panicking until he sat up and gave a thumbs up.
Peter supposes he's gotten used to the Guardians since then — no, more than that, they're pretty inspiring. It could be so easy, to sit in your self-pity, to be sad and miserable and unable to grin and bear it. Everyone's trying to keep a stiff upper lip and push onward, quietly anxious the closer they get to Vormir. But it's not like you can sit in the dark and suffer for the whole ride. It's not like in the movies, where people drink from a whiskey glass over a sad piano tune. He learned that the hard way, in the weeks that followed Ben's death. He remembers vividly the horror and guilt, when he finally smiled again.
You think, no, no, that's not right, I'm not allowed to smile anymore. Because they're not here with you. One time, he was totally fine browsing the magazine rack at the liquor store on the corner. The next moment, he was bunched up in his sweater crying, because Ben would never buy an issue of Time Magazine again. But you carry on, and you get sad sometimes, and you try your best. It's why when he finds Big Pete alone in Gamora's room, gripping the Godslayer to his chest and trying to wipe away his moment of weakness, Peter tries to keep the air light and understanding.
"You okay?" he breathes.
"Who, me?" Quill makes a sort of skeptical expression, lips nearly a grimace. "I'm peachy."
"... We're gonna get her back," Peter says, thinning his lips. "This has to work."
Quill sighs softly, nodding. Peter has a feeling the man wants to correct him, but maybe, like Peter, he's just not brave enough to face it. "Right. We'll get her back." He so very carefully places the sheathed blade on the dresser again, turning to look at the boy with something difficult to read in his eyes — guilt, maybe? Concern? Or maybe just sympathy pains and sadness and all the dumb human emotions he'd gotten saddled with. That 50%, you know; Peter can't help but wonder what the other 50% is supposed to be. Maybe someday he'll ask. "By the way, kid, I got something for ya."
"Me?" Peter says, pointing to himself, as if he wasn't clear enough.
"Do you see any other 'ya's around?" But he waves him to take a seat on the bed, as he reaches down into one of the dressers. As Peter sits down beside his name-twin, he can't help but remember the very day Tony Stark had walked into his life, sat down on his twin bunk, and saddled him with a task and a passport for Germany. It was the day that would change everything. Almost as much as the spider bite did.
When Quill sits back up, he holds out a box wrapped up in slightly crumpled wrapping paper, the loud and vibrant kind that he immediately recognizes as May's signature job. He reaches out and takes the strangely shaped gift, all rounded on top and flat on the bottom, and gives Quill a confused little look. "This is..."
"From your aunt, yeah. I was over at your place getting her blessing, and I saw you had a big-ass stack of presents just waiting on that desk. So, you know... I said it'd be a good idea if she sent one or two with us, so you had something to tie you to home. Or if you ever get bummed out and need a pick-me-up..." Quill clears his throat, working his lips to the side as he looks at his own feet. "... That kind of thing."
Peter brightens like a firefly at dawn as he looks at him, then hesitantly peels away the crinkling paper and red ribbon. Smooth glass greets his fingers.
He stares, his ears reddening while his eyes grow as big as saucers.
It's a snow globe, the kind a tourist would find at I NY, or at some little kiosk while passing through Times Square; inside the sphere is the top portion of a gaggle of buildings, and NEW YORK CITY is sculpted and painted into the base of the souvenir; on the side of one of the ceramic buildings, there's without a shadow of a doubt a familiar figure in red and blue spandex. Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, tiny but clear enough that startles Quill sideways when he leaps to his feet
"I'M ON NEW YORK MERCH!"
In space, no one can hear you scream'? As it turns out, in space, everyone on your ship can hear you scream. He almost cries, he's so happy.
The snow globe finds a home, for the next week, on the dresser beside Gamora's blade.
("When did you get so under my skin, kid?" Mr. Stark asks him.)
And then they're there.
It takes two weeks, one day, and three hours. A little over-schedule. But then they're landing among the sloping, dreary mountains of Vormir in an atmosphere that feels oppressive and bleak, even before they step off the Benatar. Nobody's laughing, nobody's smiling; this is the place shrouded in nothing but pain and loss as far as they're concerned, and the way the sun eclipses behind the smoggy clouds above paints it a hellish barrage of colors that only serves to remind them. Peter's stomach is in knots and he feels like he's gonna hurl, because this is it. This is Vormir, this is where Thanos took Gamora, this is where—
Drax squeezes his shoulder, soothing some of the building pressure in his ribs that threatens to pour out. Groot mutters something that Peter doesn't quite catch — not that he really understands the language, try as he might — but Mantis takes the tree kid's hand in hers. "It is okay, Groot. Do not be afraid... Here, let me ease your fears." Peter realizes very quickly that the older Guardians are stepping up, are trying to protect the youngest members of the group, and so he puffs out his chest and quickly starts making his way toward the entrance of the mountain with Big Pete beside him. Rocket cradles his gattling gun as he follows; he's been ready to kill anything in his way since the day they left Earth.
The metal container under Quill's arm houses the deadly colored stone, the very thing they'd lost their darling, dearest ,dead to. Before they can get too far, though, they're startled to a stop by a cloaked, red-faced figure that drifts down from the crevice above like some angel of death. In the dimness of the blocked sunlight, Peter assumes it's face paint the man's smeared with — but as the being lingers closer, he can see with stunned clarity that it's a boogieman from the furthest memory of his childhood, the kind that Captain America would shield him and the rest of the world from: The Red Skull.
"Is that a creepy Nazi bad guy hovering in front of us?" Quill asks, startled.
"What is a Nazi?" Mantis adds.
"Holy shit," Peter can only curse.
"I take it you're here to bargain," Red Skull says dispassionately. "Peter Quill. Peter Parker. I will accompany you to the hill."
"Now wait a goddamn minute—!" Rocket barks, but Quill holds up a hand.
'Steady,' it says. 'It'll be okay.'
Red Skull turns and leaves no room for further conversation, even if Rocket's insults are at the tip of his tongue. The monstrous being just looks back knowingly, and Peter swallows hard in the presence of real evil drifting up an endless looking set of stairs before him. God, he's gonna have something to tell Mr. Rogers later. And as much as his feet feel heavy at the prospect of listening to the figure, he can only think of the fact that Gamora stood at these very steps once, trailing after a genocidal monster who would soon be her demise. He's walking where she's walked, and with that, he's able to force himself to follow Quill — Quill, who doesn't hesitate to move.
(Ned mumbles, "Don't leave again.")
The path is long and winding, and Red Skull takes his time explaining the eerie details of their visit, and of his role here in Vormir, and of the wisdom locked away within the stone. At some point, Quill's hand carefully settles onto Peter's shoulder as Drax's had. He doesn't look at him, feeling pale and small in this place. Something in his gut is twisting; something in his body is crying out, telling him to run. To panic. To scream. It's like Titan all over again. Something here is dangerous. Something here is poisonous, ruinous, and it aims to hurt him and the people he loves. "You okay, Pete?" Quill asks him.
"I—" Don't feel good. "I'm alright."
He doesn't think Big Pete believes him, but it's too late to turn back now. When they've reached the great crest housing a dreadful precipice between two towering rock monoliths, the specter-like entity turns to face them. "The Soul Stone called back to its home, when it knew it was returning. You see, it has its own will — it's own mind, and in a sense, it will always be unique, beyond that of the other Infinity Stones. It knew the once celestial Peter Jason Quill was coming to seek out a bargain. A price. One that Ego attempted, so very long ago."
"Ego?" Quill breathes, stunned.
"Who's Ego?" Peter asks, but the man says nothing.
Red Skull replies, "A way to cull his expansion... A way to absorb the souls across the galaxy. But he had no one to offer — no one he loved at his disposal, not anymore. And he had nothing he could offer in its place."
Peter sees the stiff lip of the mountain's cliffside. He steps a little closer, but doesn't dare look over its edge. Instead he glances at Quill, brow furrowed with worry as the Guardian curls his fingers tightly around the metal container choked in his grip. Quill tries not to be shaken as he growls, "Look, Freddie Kruger, you can skip the ominous build-up here. Can you give us the girl in exchange for the stone or not? Because that's all I've got for you right now."
"... It's not up to me, what is given and what isn't. It's the will of the Soul Stone — and the stone calls for blood. A life in exchange for another. One soul sacrificed to resurrect the lost." Suddenly, everything in Peter's mind grinds to a halt, like a record skipping on a vinyl player. They came in the hopes that returning the stone would be enough; suddenly, he can see it, can visualize the red leather coattails as Quill leaps from the cliff. Kills himself, for Gamora, because he's that kind of guy — would do anything for her. His spider senses are going haywire. Danger,they scream. Run, Peter, they yell. Don't look back, never look back, they beg. "It's too late to undo what Thanos has done. Gamora was his price — but the stone is willing to make an... exception."
Quill's got this look in his eyes, and it scares him enough that he ignores the way his stomach clenches and nearly heaves. His legs feel like jelly but he moves and grabs Quill's sleeve with a fierce grip. "Don't."
Gamora will hate herself if Mr. Quill did something like that. If he traded himself for her. She'd never accept that.
"Not for your life," the Red Skull tells Quill. His gnarled hand rises to point at Peter, where he grips onto Quill's arm. "The Soul Stone asks for the boy."
("I was supposed to protect you," May pleads. "I'm supposed to protect you.")
"What?" Quill whispers. He slowly turns to look down at Peter, as the teenager releases his leather sleeve with stiffly curled fingers.
Peter's heart races. His heightened senses scream along his spine like little skittering, poisonous spiders.
Red Skull simply speaks, as the winds gust through and whip up his tattered cloak:
"The boy, tied to your lost love, the bridge between her world and ours. A soul for a soul."
(MJ leans forward and asks Peter, "But what is your heart telling you?")