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She wants to hate him, this man who failed to stop her father, this Terran in red and gold. A show-off, like Quill. Perhaps all Terrans are like that.
But she cannot hate him. She failed, too. All her anger, held close for years, treasured like a precious thing—useless, when it mattered. They failed together, and now they must work together, if they are to survive.
He still has not moved, staring at fingers stained dark with ash.
Distraught.
Whoever that boy was, he had been essential to this man. They both lost family today.
She extends her hand.
***
It frightens her, how weak he is—the metal shell is impressive, but stripped bare he becomes nothing but flesh and bone, prone to pain, susceptible to infection. Not an ideal companion for racing, haphazard, across the stars.
And yet, his mind is not weak. He is bright, and nimble, able to look into the heart of the ship and see its working. Most of all he’s stubborn, biting back pain as she burns away infection. He treats his body like an obstacle—it will not stop him any more than Thanos or their hopeless situation.
That, she can respect.
***
Their food is scarce, but he makes a game of it, putting each new taste into Terran terms. It’s all meaningless to her, but she listens, because it seems to make him happy.
“Is this dry…custard?” he asks, mouth full of powder. “Strange.”
“It mixes with milk, but…” She does not have to explain that there is none.
“My friend Happy makes a mean custard. When we get back to Earth, I’ll have him whip some up.”
She nods. There is no Earth in their future, but if the lie makes him happy, she can listen to that, too.
***
They sit side by side, watching the glowing woman carry them to safety.
“It’s beautiful,” he comments, but his tone does not speak of beauty. There is only exhaustion there.
“Yes,” Nebula agrees. And then, a question that never would have occurred to her, before: “Are you happy?”
He raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Well, I’m not going to die.”
“And so you’re happy?”
“Are you?” he counters, slumping into his chair.
She thinks of Gamora, even the band of reckless idiots. All gone. She shakes her head.
He lifts an invisible glass in her direction, toasting. “Well, there’s your answer.”
***
She stays by his side when the red haired woman needs rest. He’s so much frailer than he’d seemed on the ship, as if he’s finally given up now that they are safe. It makes her ache. If only she could transfer some of her strength to him.
“You don’t have to stick around, Blue,” he tells her. “You don’t owe me.”
“But.” She searches for the words. “Is this not what friends do?”
“Friends,” he repeats. “I didn’t realize.”
He laughs; barely, but enough to make her smile, then reaches out and takes her hand.
“Okay,” he agrees. “Stay.”