"Ben, how come we keep going to all these baseball games when our team always loses?"
Peter's switching out his Iron Man mask for a Mets cap as they head out the door. It's a sunny April sky in Queens, as pigeons prod the asphalt for crumbs by park benches. Peter walks just a little faster to try and keep up with his uncle's longer, stronger legs as they make their way down the sidewalk. He's never really had good stamina, but he's determined to not get carried on Ben's back like he's a baby this time. Maybe being puny had something to do with it, but... Peter was never really into sports — computers and movies and building stuff had always been a better time, and all of those are always much easier to handle than the roar of overeager fans, or the burn of sunlight directly overhead — but over time he's just learned to love it 'cus it's his and Ben's special thing.
His dad liked the Mets a lot, too. Maybe that's just another reason he loves to go to these things.
It's like he's doing something his dad would be happy about, you know? He misses his dad.
"Well, Peter, it's not just about winning." Ben slows down, and Peter can tell he does it for him. "The underdogs are the best people to root for. They get beat down and beat down, but they never give up, you know what I mean? Their heart's in it, and sooner or later, that'll pay off. Besides, they don't always lose."
Peter's not so sure about that. Sometimes there's really just no winning, like how he's always the last kid to finish the mile. Or how Jacob Rosenberg is always calling him really mean names that shouldn't get under his skin (but always do). He sniffs and adjusts his glasses as they slide a ways down his nose. His wild locks try to escape out from under his baseball cap, the springy style inherited from his father's side of the family. Maybe he's the underdog, and maybe he's the one who feels like he's never gonna win at something. Maybe he feels like the team people don't prefer to root for.
"I wish I was any good at baseball," Peter grumbles.
"Hey, work hard enough, you can be with the big leagues, kiddo."
The train doors slide open for them, and they squeeze their way in; Ben lets Peter stand on one of the seats so he isn't lost in the sea of fellow travelers, since he's kind of puny, and he bounces on his heels a little as they fast approach the stadium. When he gets there, he ends up being carried the last stretch of the walk to the bleachers and wilts a little where he clings to his adoptive father's back. Part of him is annoyed that it comes to this, to him being picked up and dusted off and rescued by his uncle. Part of him is just glad he's there to do it — he just wishes he could do more, be more for his uncle. He knew he wanted better the day he watched Iron Man zip overhead.
Keep the faith, he thinks. Root for the underdogs. Never give up. Never accept the loss.
And maybe Ben's right. Cus' the Mets open the new season at home with a 7—1 win against the Florida Marlins.
The crowds go wild; Peter hoots and hollers and feels the thrill of victory as he waves his flag and spills his soda on the floor.
He won't forget the moment Ben looks over at him, smiles, and says, "Always keep the faith, Pete. You get rewarded in the end."
Years later, after Ben's gone, Peter goes to the Mets games in private — alone. He always buys a second seat. He always eats so much popcorn he thinks he'll never be able to floss his teeth clean after. And he always keeps that faith and waits for that due reward. The underdogs are the best people to root for, after all.
... Besides, they don't always lose.
"No."
Peter stares in disbelief, his tongue heavy in his mouth, but Quill looks sure of himself — maybe even a little exasperated, a little annoyed, but no doubt utterly sure... Such a small, simple word, but it knocks the wind out of Peter's lungs. He had been standing here thinking of the cost, figuring up how likely (unlikely) it could be that Big Pete would grab him by the shirt collar and cast him down into the pit; if the exchange would count, if he just ran and leaped for it in a moment of reckless abandon, ruining so many promises; of how many people would lose Gamora versus how many would lose him — he was balancing their lives on a scale, knowing that it would be so much easier to lose some kid than her, the woman Quill loved, the one Quill would have died for in a heartbeat.
And yet Quill stands there with an unreadable expression, the metal box containing the stone still tucked firmly under one arm, while Peter's heart is pounding against his ribs, chipping and shattering with each thump. 'No'? He looks at the man with all the wonder in his teary eyes, and he's... not sure if he's disappointed or not. 'No' means Gamora stays dead. 'No' means the Guardians'll never be whole again.'No' means that Peter failed his friend and left her in the bottom of some long, ugly pit after everything she'd done for him and everything he'd promised her in secrecy. He's confused and torn, because Gamora's life is not less than his.
This isn't fair. This isn't how this story ends.
"Big Pete?" he manages hoarsely.
"No?" Red Skull parrots.
"Yeah, you heard me." Quill works his jaw now, his eyes slowly flooding with fire. "I said no. Because here's the thing — I'm not some Nazi who got his nose put on a chopping block before he became a magic stone's little bitch. I'm not Ego. And I'm not Thanos." He turns, looking at Peter apologetically. "I'm a Guardian of the Galaxy — and a part-time Avenger, yeah; I'll slap that on my resume. And I don't trade innocent lives. Or friends. If this stone really thought I'd take after any of those screwed-up, monstrous dickbags, then it can keep its bargains. I'd rather drown in misery and cheap alien booze for the rest of my life."
A very short-lived hush falls over the three figures. Then Quill's face pinches with pain, just before he twists around on one foot.
With one great heave he flings the metal container, before Peter can even so much as cry out to stop.
"Take your shitty stone back!" Quill screams, face reddened and eyes burning hot with liquid emotion. Peter's hand reaches out, his wrists bare and his agility not nearly enough to turn back a clock. Down goes the stone in its box, further and further into the darkness. The teenager collapses at the ledge and watches it go, strong winds whipping curled bangs across his disbelieving eyes. No, no, no, it's over — Quill did it, he took the only chance and —
"Interesting," the Red Skull says, as he begins to fade. "Very interesting, Peter Quill, for a visitor to avoid temptation..."
Peter blinks his confusion.
Way below him, the great, yawning mouth full of stone teeth rumbles, so much so that he has to grip the edge of the cliff with his adhesive palms to avoid toppling over by accident. A yellow light swallows everything down in the pit and then overfills it, spiraling up, up, up, into the sky. A ring of clean air expands high above them and shakes their bones. The Soul Stone's returning, he thinks queasily, squeezing his eyes shut. The cold clutching cloth of defeat wraps around his shoulders like a terrible cape and, breathless, he drops his head and chokes on a sob that nearly triggers more. Part of him wishes that Big Pete had been a worse person, a colder person.
It's an ugly thought. A not very nice one. He's sorry, he's just so sorry—
"Just what it was looking for," Red Skull's voice hums. "The stone's pleased."
"Peter!" Quill calls out and grabs his shoulders. It's only then that the boy realizes the light is getting stronger and hotter and more overwhelming. It sweeps through the muggy sky of the planet and leaves everything impossibly white, so that all he can feel for a moment is Quill's hands curling in the fabric of his cheap jacket. The Guardian jerks him backwards and away from the long fall, closer to the shuddering exit among jagged rocks. He couldn't see. He feels like he's been blinded as some punishment for not being enough.
As the light begins to lessen and the mountain air cools the sweat on their brows, he hears feet scuff the earth in front of them.
"Peter."
The voice almost doesn't register, because it feels like a fiction. Like some great mirage, or a lie someone told to soothe a wounded soul. But as he rubs his face and his sight comes back to him, and between the spaces of his fingers, he sees dark hair that's tinged with magenta. And then a green-skinned face materializes from the sunspots in his eyes, too, one that looks an awful lot like—
"Gamora?" Quill gasps.
None of them can move for a moment, because it doesn't feel real enough yet. If they budge, does it break the illusion? Does it cast her back into the nothing, or leave them empty-handed once again? Is this like some great gasp, some last reminder of what they couldn't have, before it was yanked away right in front of them? But no — the howling mountain air doesn't shift into ominous shades of gray, and Gamora looks at shaking hands that stay solid. A tear drips down from the corner of her eye, along her nose. It looks — so real.
Peter's spider sense had slid to a crashing halt. There's no fear. No panic. No urge to run. He stands there with lead-heavy feet, unsure, but this much is true: the danger has settled, and his friend is standing in front of them. Alive. Returned. Quill is running forward like his life's depending on it and throws his arms around her, probably hard enough to bruise a normal man. His back vibrates with untamed emotion as Gamora's arms slide around his wide chest to embrace him back. Quill weeps, "Gamora, I'm here. I got you. Oooh, god, I take it all back. I take it back about the shitty stone." He laughs a little manically, holding her cheeks in his hands. "I love you."
"You're ridiculous," she says, voice trembling, pressing her lips into his.
Peter snaps out of his staring spell enough to fluster, looking left and right and down—
And then he's violently startled by the sharp, ugly wailing that sets off behind him; Groot comes storming by with outstretched arms, his near inconsolable weeping muffled into Gamora's hair as he wraps himself around her and Quill. Rocket drops the heavy weapon in his hand, and it hits the hard surface of the outcropping mighty clang as he rushes in. Drax and Mantis are not far behind him, sounds of relief and gasps of happy surprise mingling. Nebula appears like a ghost herself, as she always does; she walks with purpose, shouldering into the crowd to embrace and grip her sister so tightly she may never let go. Peter can barely even see Gamora anymore between the hurried bodies that form a protective shield around her, their arms like rope that tether her to safety.
The ecstatic voices are a song on Peter's ears. As he stands before the scene, a slow and disbelieving smile finally spreads across his face.
Sometimes people come back, he thinks. He came back, after all. An empty place in his chest fills up with mortar, smoothed clean.
For whatever reason he can't grasp, the stone bargained only itself.
Thank you, he thinks. Thank you, thank you—
It takes some time before Gamora's hands part the great red sea that is her team. From the blossoming core of the Guardians of the Galaxy, she appears, and gives the boy a fond smile. It's only been a few weeks since he's seen it, but it also feels like it'd been an eternity. How strange it is, to feel homesick for so many places at once. How strange his life's become, when death is not the end. She holds her arms out with an exasperated look, and his legs finally seem to work, as he practically launches from where he stands and all but collapses into her. It feels so familiar, and yet so utterly unfamiliar, clinging to this flesh and blood person. His friend, his dearest friend, someone he thought about every day. Every day.
"Hello, Peter Parker," she whispers softly. His chin quivers where he's hiding his face away.
"I told you I couldn't leave you," he manages, smiling wide.
Everyone's hands return, their warm bodies curling around the two of them like petals: Quill's hand sits around his shoulders; Drax's meaty arm curls around his head; Mantis' cool palms pressing the buttons of his spine; Rocket's fur tickles his cheek; Groot's bark scratches at his ribs; the cool metal of a robotic arm presses alongside his fleshy one.
Nebula rolls her black eyes, and tries to pretend her face isn't streaked with wetness. "This is ridiculous, I want out."
Crushed with Gamora in the middle, Peter gives up before he even tries to wriggle to freedom.
Why bother, when this is such a nice place to be?
Gamora just huffs a breath at her sister and doesn't let him go; just leaves her hand there on the nape of his neck, warm and alive and real.
This is real.
"Let's get off this garbage planet," she mutters.
"Yeah, the decor's not really speakin' to me," Rocket quips.
Peter's got so much to talk to Gamora about. They've all got so much to talk about with her, and he almost feels a little bad at how much they all huddle around her, like they're all planets in her orbit, going round and round as they chatter and banter with swelling emotion. Quill's hand never leaves Gamora's, interlocking their fingers with a gentle sort of ferocity that reminds her she's loved. He's sure he's got plenty to ask Big Pete about later in secret, about what had just happened on this mountain top, but he knows it's just better to count the win — to accept the victory for now, and maybe forever.
Sometimes you don't need to ask why. You just take what you're given.
They walk down the hillside with a newfound peace, and more than that, a sense that the ugly universe Thanos had created was finally, truly righted. There'll be a lot to work out with Gamora, he's pretty sure: those feelings you get after coming back from the other side, they're heavy and difficult to sift through. He can only hope that being in solidarity with her will ease the burdens that come with resurrection — with suddenly being alive, and not a phantom, not a memory of someone else who outlived you. He's ready to help. He'll always be ready to help. She's got him, if it ever feels like too much, and if she ever needs someone to lean on and talk to about it.
He figures the Guardians of the Galaxy have the other sore topics covered.
"I mean, I might have tossed you off the cliff, personally" Rocket says mid-conversation, and Gamora slaps him hard enough over the head that his ears flatten and he cowers under his fuzzy hands. "What?! He's durable! He's got gross spider powers! I bet he could have handled that tumble, ain't I right, sticky-boy? Ow! Owowow! Stop smacking me!"
They're a little confused at how happy all this makes Peter. But god —
How good it feels, to breathe without those heavy, ruinous anvils pushing down into his chest.
Quill starts up a familiar old song that blares through the speakers, as the Benatar ascends through the atmosphere and leaves behind the ugly world below. As Peter presses his hand to the glass window that separates him from the vast expansion of planets and stars, he feels unstoppable. Unafraid. He hums to the music and feels at ease when he closes his eyes. The journey's half-done, but it feels like the ending's been written; MJ and Ned, May and Mr. Stark, they're all waiting for him. He's so excited to introduce them to Gamora. And — and he's ready to start his life up again.
He'll take MJ to the cafe a bunch, and he'll visit Ned all the time. He'll play poker until he's actually good enough to add to the chip in his pocket, and he'll eat a lot of Sam's home-cooked meals in the good company of his soldier buddies. He'll sit in his favorite chair. He'll hang out with Dr. Banner and gush about his work in the lab, and he'll call up Cassie and see how her algebra's doing. He'll open all his presents with May and go to another Mets game for Ben, and he'll be Morgan's superhero. He'll go see a fireworks show with Mr. Stark for real, one they can both actually enjoy.
God, there's so much to do.
He feels like there's not enough years in his life to do it, whether he lives another year or until he's a hundred.
But it's a good kind of restlessness, full of purpose.
"How does it feel, beating death?" Gamora asks him.
The last time he'd seen her back in that oasis, she had been pressing her fingers into his wounds and begging for his forgivenness. Looking at her now, so at ease and with life in her eyes, he wants to cry a little. There's so much to say. But at least now they can sit in each other's company again and talk again — about anything, everything. Natasha was right. They'd got time. They've got however much of it to say what they need to say and do what they need to do, and he's gonna use it the right way now — by living in it properly again, not as a spectator, but like he did before the snap.
He won't let his miracles pass him by. He won't let these rewards go unnoticed.
"Who me? I've never felt so alive."
Gamora scuffs her bony knuckles across his cheek, and he grins at her impishly from the table.
"Guess who finally figured out what a ziborthhog is?"
They set a course for home.