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Gamora has always been a deeply private person.
Ironic, obviously, given the fact that she’s stepping more and more often into the public eye as Guardian’s popularity began to rise, but nevertheless, she still values keeping her work life and her private life separate. She deftly avoids the paparazzi, ducking into dark alleys or storefronts before they even notice her.
Peter, on the other hand – whose stage name, Star-Lord, is becoming a little more commonplace – handles it far better. He grins and winks and drinks in the attention like a sponge. He flirts with their fans from the stage, charms the interviewers with crooked smiles. Peter is the spokesperson of the band, thanks to his easy charisma, but considering who the other members are, that’s hardly a surprise.
Normally, he could take the difficult questions and talk circles around his answer. Usually those questions had to do with their rumored criminal history – running with gangs or starting drunken bar brawls or stealing cars – and sometimes, their interviewers had more than a few pointed questions about the rumors of Peter’s “involvement” with Gamora.
Their “involvement” with one another was no one’s business, Gamora had decided. While Peter had told her repeatedly that he would gladly shout it from the rooftops, if he could, that he would dedicate every song and lyric to her, he respected her choice.
She wanted this for them. She didn’t want their relationship to gather any attention. It was theirs and no one else’s.
And Peter would babble, would hop from segue to segue until the interviewer feels satisfied, despite never receiving a proper answer, or until the interviewer has forgotten the question in the first place.
Right now, though, Peter sits rigidly, eyes wide and hands clenched into tight fists in his lap.
Gamora is seated beside him, and her gaze darts to him briefly before glaring back at the interviewer.
“I think we should move on,” she says, taking pains to keep her voice even.
“It’s such a tragic story,” the interviewer continues, ignoring Gamora entirely.
The interviewer, Ayesha, is beautiful, Gamora has to admit, with her hair pulled back into a high, tight bun that accentuates her cheekbones. Peter’s type – but then again, not too long ago, anything with a pulse might have been Peter’s type.
Gamora had glanced over at Peter as Ayesha had entered the room, and he had looked back at her with an expression that said, “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Ayesha had spent the first ten minutes of the interview shamelessly flirting with him, and Peter had flirted back – almost politely, like it was a normal part of conversation. And perhaps, for Peter, it was, though the instant Peter had spotted Gamora rolling her eyes, he had cleared his throat and straightened, slapping on a mask of pure professionalism.
That mask has clearly slipped in the meantime, and when Gamora looks at him now, he has the air of a man staring down a firing squad.
“It’s been sixteen years to the day, I believe,” Ayesha says smoothly. She uncrosses her legs, only to cross them again in the opposite direction. She props her chin on her hand, elbow resting on the armrest of her chair. “The anniversary of your mother’s death, coinciding with one of your biggest performances to date. A bit tone-deaf, wouldn’t you say?”
Gamora has the sudden desire to punch out Ayesha’s teeth. “If we could please move on to the next question?”
“Meredith Quill,” Ayesha continues, pretending as though Gamora had never spoken. “A single mother, raising a young Peter Quill, who would one day become the illustrious Star-Lord. She was taken by sickness, as I understand it? And you, so young, to be left in the world, all on your own. With no father to speak of, as I hear it?”
Ayesha’s brow crinkles, lips pressing together as her expression shifts into one of sympathy. Gamora sees nothing genuine in it. Peter shrinks in his seat, each word cutting into him like a blade.
“A man you never met, as I understand. Did he leave your mother after you were conceived, or was he gone soon after you were born? A common story, of course, but a history like that has had a clear effect on your music.”
Peter gives a sharp shake of his head. He croaks, “I don’t—”
And again, Ayesha ignores them, flipping to a page in her notes. “Interspersed with the occasional radio-friendly hit about partying, you’ve written more than a few songs about abandonment and lost or unrequited love. Among the dreck of Guardian’s singles – if you don’t mind my saying – are a few genuinely unique gems. Perhaps we can get to the heart of things, and you could speak on how your experiences have molded you into the artist you are today.
“It seems you still feel the loss of your mother so keenly, Mr. Quill, after all these years. Sixteen years is a long time to mourn, some might say. And some might also say there’s something disingenuous in it.”
“That’s enough,” Gamora snaps, and she can hear the snarl in her own voice.
Ayesha spares her a patronizing smile before focusing back on Peter.
“Are you really so lonely, Mr. Quill?”
Peter takes a sharp breath.
Gamora stands, then, the legs of her chair squealing with the abrupt movement. Peter’s head snaps up to stare at her, and she rests a hand on his shoulder, trying desperately to control the way she shakes with rage.
He looks so lost.
“This interview is over,” Gamora says, pulling Peter to his feet. She marvels at how unresisting he is as she guides him from the room.
Gamora ignores the way Ayesha smirks at her, the way Ayesha leans back in her seat before offering a nod that somehow manages to be mocking and polite, all at once.
It’s been hours and hours since they left Ayesha, smug and triumphant, and Peter still hasn’t said a word.
Ayesha, of course, had gone to Twitter, lamenting the lack of professionalism from Guardian’s front man and, especially, their lead guitarist.
The others have been filling in the silence for him. Rocket has been snarling about the interview ever since Gamora had explained what happened, and Drax has been solemnly agreeing with him. Groot, at least, has been a solid presence at Peter’s side, silent but understanding.
Peter has always been sensitive about his childhood, Gamora knows. He holds the loss of his mother close to his heart. On late, drunken nights, he had confessed to how furious he was at the father he never knew for leaving them, for never once seeming to give a shit about Peter’s mother or the life of their son.
(“Fuck that guy,” Peter had grumbled once, the words thick and running together. Gamora had let him curl close, had let him tuck his face against her neck while she held his hand. His breath had faintly smelled of whiskey. “Just once, I wanna meet him so I can kick his ass.”)
And now, he stands in the wings, staring into the middle distance. Gamora can hear their fans shouting and whistling, chanting the band’s name. Normally the wash of noise would make Peter grin in wonder, like he could hardly believe their luck. This is their biggest show to date, and the members of Guardian should be practically vibrating with excitement.
Mostly, though, they’re all subdued, because Peter is uncharacteristically subdued, and the silence weighs heavily on them.
“Peter,” Gamora says, standing close to be heard over the chaos. He comes out of his daze, blinking at her owlishly, and he almost seems confused. “Peter, do we need to cancel?”
He stares at her for a second, and it’s almost as though he just realized where he is. He blinks again before shaking himself, looking at his surroundings like he’s seeing them for the first time. The chanting from the auditorium echoes from the high ceilings, and Peter puts on a small, unsteady smile.
“No,” he says. He visibly straightens, straightening out his signature leather jacket. “No, I’m good. It’s fine. Let’s rock this bitch.”
Gamora looks at him uncertainly for a second, but at length, she nods. He tries to smile again, and this time, he looks a little more like himself. He leans forward for a quick kiss, Gamora assumes, but she pulls away on instinct.
He blinks at her again, poleaxed.
She crosses her arms as she rocks back, kicking herself for her own reaction.
“Gamora,” he says, ducking his head. He chews on his lip. “You and me. Are we ever going to…”
He trails off, and Gamora frowns.
“‘Going to’ what?” she asks, and she can’t help the defensive edge in her voice.
“I mean, we’ve been— We’ve been dancing around this for forever, but we haven’t—”
She clenches her jaw, trying to swallow down her impatience. Peter had a bad habit of babbling when he was nervous. “‘Haven’t’ what, Peter?”
He turns to face her fully. There’s something almost helpless in his expression, something confused and anxious and—something else Gamora can’t quite name.
“What the hell are we doing?” he asks, his voice strangely hollow. Gamora’s blood runs cold. “What do you want this to be? What am I to you? Because, Gamora— Gamora, I think— I think I’m—”
But someone is announcing the band, calling them all on stage. The crowd’s cheering reaches a fever pitch as Drax, Rocket, and Groot run on stage first.
“Now’s not the time,” Gamora says. She almost feels grateful for the interruption. “We’ll talk about this later.”
But she almost hopes that with the distraction of their show and the ensuing adrenaline high and adrenaline crash, Peter will forget the questions he just asked.
Peter nods, head bowed. “Yeah. Of course. Sure.”
Gamora hesitates before stepping out on stage.
Only a second or two after, the cheering suddenly becomes deafening as Peter steps into view, his showman’s smile firmly in place. He plays up the crowd as he usually does, waving and dancing as the others test their instruments, getting comfortable. The mic stand is decorated with one of Peter’s red scarves, and he plucks up the microphone with practiced ease. He moves to the edge of the stage to scan their audience, a hand shading his eyes.
“Holy shit,” he says into the mic, dragging out the words, voice genuinely bright and excited. “There’s a lot of you guys out there, huh? Wait, hang on, can we get some houselights?”
The lights in the auditorium slowly brighten as Peter pulls his phone from his pocket and turns his back to the crowd. He raises the phone high and crouches a little, and Gamora sees him mirrored on the phone’s screen, along with the fans grinning and waving in the background.
He announces, “We’re takin’ a selfie!”
The audience goes wild, and Peter laughs. Gamora relaxes by degrees as Peter seems to slip into his onstage persona, all charisma and swagger, and she feels herself smiling.
“Okay, show time, a-holes,” Peter says, tucking his phone away and replacing the mic in its cradle. He picks up his guitar from its stand – a Flying V marbled in blue and orange – and loops the strap over his head. “We’re gonna play some music for you guys, if that’s okay.”
Another raucous cheer, and Drax clicks his drumsticks together, starting them off.
They work their way through their set, and miraculously, it’s going well. No electrical issues, no broken drumsticks, no snapped strings. Guardian was known for putting on a good show, but they were also known for varying mishaps spanning the gamut to minor to catastrophic and adapting on the fly. By now, fans were there to listen to their music as much as they were there to witness things going wrong.
Gamora thinks that, for once, they might have a clean set.
Except—
Except they reach "The Goof-Off Segment,” as Peter had jokingly christened it.
Ever since an incident where Groot had completely forgotten the order of their songs, they’ve taken to printing out their setlist, with the truncated titles of their songs typed out in large, friendly letters. This part of the show was when they let their love of music take them along. The songs changed almost every concert, depending on their moods, and spanned anywhere from instrumentals they composed that hadn’t yet received lyrics, to older songs from their band’s infancy that never really gained traction, to covers of old favorites.
Tonight, their helpful print-out reminds them that they’re starting the Goof-Off Segment with a cover of “Brandy” by Looking Glass.
(“My mother loved this song,” Peter had told them, smiling wistfully as he shared the arrangement. “It’s the greatest song on Earth.”)
Peter must spot it the same instant Gamora does, because he freezes, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the microphone. The other Guardians are apparently unaware of Peter’s current state, because they start in on the next song before Gamora can stop them.
Peter misses his cue.
But the song continues on, and Gamora exchanges quick glances with an alarmed Groot. Even the crowd has gone quiet, and quickly, Rocket takes up the mantle, singing in Peter’s place. Rocket’s voice isn’t quite as clean, isn’t quite as steady, but he sings with confidence.
Gamora turns back to offer him a grateful nod, but Rocket returns the gesture with a pointed glare – something that screams, Fucking do something.
Gamora backs away from her own mic stand, still playing along with the others on her guitar. She calls Peter’s name.
He turns toward her, arms limp at his sides. His expression is strangely empty, like it had been during the interview with Ayesha.
He looks like he’s drowning.
“What am I to you?” Peter had asked her, quiet and desperate and—
—and terrified, Gamora realizes now, and her chest twists with it.
Peter had been terrified.
“Are you really so lonely, Mr. Quill?” Ayesha had asked, wearing an insincere frown of sympathy.
Behind them, Rocket sings about Brandy, with her beautiful eyes and dazzling smile, in love with someone who couldn’t – or maybe wouldn’t — love her back.
“Gamora,” Peter had stuttered. “Gamora, I think— I think I’m—”
Oh.
Something warm blossoms in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs, and she feels her expression go slack.
Oh.
She surges forward before she even realizes it, closing the space between the two of them in what feels like an instant and pushing her guitar away, slinging it across her back. He frowns at her, starting to say her name.
Gamora values her privacy – what little of it remains while they’re rising in the limelight, at least – and Peter had respected that. Keeping their relationship a secret had seemed the wisest course of action while they were finding their way. And it was, for a while. Gamora thinks fondly of their late nights together as this strange, fragile thing bloomed between them, just talking. And she thinks of falling asleep curled against Peter on their uncomfortable tour bus. And she thinks of Peter’s bright, dumbfounded smiles when he thought she wasn’t looking.
She realizes, now, that she hadn’t been keeping this safe, as she thought. She had been keeping it for herself and had left Peter alone and locked in the dark.
Gamora brackets his face with her hands, and he blinks at her.
She leans up and slots her lips over his, and the world falls away.
They’ve done this before, of course. Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Little innocent pecks as they started their days, or far more heated kisses as they crashed into one another after finding their hotel rooms. In retrospect, she wonders why it had felt so impossible to do this in public, when right now, it feels as easy as breathing.
Peter’s hand cups her cheek, and he breaks off their kiss to suck in a startled breath. He rests his forehead against hers, his face flushed and eyes bright and a little glassy. He looks dumbstruck, but he’s smiling now, disbelief warring with complete delight.
Gamora feels herself smiling back.
After a heartbeat, reality comes crashing back in, and she hears their fans screaming. The other Guardians have stopped playing, she realizes, and she catches Drax’s mild, approving nod from the corner of her eye.
“Sorry for that disgusting display, everyone,” Rocket grouses into his microphone, cutting over the chaos. “If you feel the need to puke, please make your ways to the exits in an orderly fashion.”
Peter pulls back to shoot Rocket a glare, though he only shrugs in response. He casts an apologetic look to Gamora as he pulls away with clear reluctance, readjusting the strap of his guitar.
His grin seems permanently affixed to his face, at the moment. He says, “We should get back to work.”
“We should.”
“We’re—gonna talk about this later, right?”
Gamora nods. “We will.”
She means it, this time.
And this time, when he leans forward for a quick kiss, Gamora doesn’t pull away.
The disastrous interview with is Ayesha is practically forgotten, and every mention of Guardian in social media varies from incoherent gibberish (“Keymashing,” Peter had explained), to expressions of dismay at either Gamora or Peter apparently being spoken for, to accusations of publicity stunts.
Gamora ignores it all, sitting with Peter as they wind down from the concert, the television flipped to a cheesy infomercial for background noise. The boxes and wrappers from their late night fast food run still haven’t made their way to the nearby trash can, and Peter chews idly on what must be a cold French fry as he idly scrolls through his phone.
The woman on the television struggles in vain against the lid of a pickle jar, and Peter breaks the comfortable silence between them with a quiet laugh.
He turns his phone’s screen to her, showing her a video of “The Kiss,” as the fans have dubbed it. The shaky video shows the instant Peter freezes, shows Gamora kissing him and Guardian stuttering to a stop, up until Peter finally got control of the situation.
“So,” he had drawled, as he reclaimed his microphone, laughing a little. He and Gamora had exchanged glances. “Surprise?”
The fan behind the phone had shrieked along with the rest of the audience before the video abruptly ends.
Gamora looks up at Peter. His smile is wide and bright, but gentle and warm in that distinct way, reserved entirely for her.
“You kinda like me, huh?”
Her eyes narrow, lips pressing into a line to suppress her smile.
“It’s possible,” she admits.
Peter barks out a laugh, tossing his phone away to the far end of the couch.
“I like you a lot, too,” he says, but there’s weight behind his words. She knows he wants to say more, but he’s waiting, she thinks.
There will be time for more later, she thinks, and she settles against his side. He rests his arm around her shoulders, pressing his face to her hair.