Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s the end of November—at least on Earth. Not here. But still.

It’s November.

His fingers grip the neck of the bottle, eyes staring vacantly at the Terran calendar on his holo—the one she requested from Nova Corps all these years ago to be able to track the Earth days. All in an earnest attempt to make him feel better.

After Ego.

And before anything else.

Just to keep up with all the traditions, she told him, fingers nervously tapping against the material of her leggings. He kissed her then, eyes suddenly burning with unshed tears.

He can’t kiss her now.

It’s November thirtieth.

He wants to cry.

But no tears are left.

So he keeps drinking.

He remembers his childhood. The Christmas era as he excitedly screamed on December first, year after year.

He doesn’t scream excitedly now.

Years ago, December was about snow blankets with tiny snowflakes sparkling in the bright sunlight. It was about frosty windows, his mom’s smile, and a smell of hot chocolate and cookies.

He loved it.

The snow.

The decorations.

The warmth and comfort of his home.

Now, there’s none of it. There’s Space, there’s shady bar with blasting music and there’s salty peanuts. There’s drunk Rocket, annoyed Nebula, distracted Drax, and worried Mantis. There’s moody Groot and familiar Kraglin.

They surround him, all day everyday, but all he can see is her.

He sees her everywhere.

It’s torture.

But it’s better than nothing at all.

He thinks about her all the time, every second of every day. When he wakes up in the morning. When he drifts off to sleep. When he wakes up in the middle of the night, the bed is still too big and still too cold.

Has it been only a year? Or six maybe? He doesn’t know how to even track time that passed anymore. Everything is messed up. Nothing is right.

It’s a mess, a black hole that’s sucking him in.

He can’t.

He just can’t.

A lump in his throat is still there, just like it always is. The memories of them in this bed plague him endlessly.

He always thinks about her. But somehow, it’s worse now. Ever since he became remotely aware of the holiday season on Earth, it’s like someone stabbed him again.

Harshly. Quickly. In one swift motion. But the one that left him bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

December is hard. It reminds him of her. Of the traditions she insisted upon. Of the kisses he stole under the mistletoe. Of the Christmas tree lights she used to hang around everywhere.

Of him hurting badly that first year after Ego. Of her fixing it.

Of how she’s not here to fix it now.

Tears are gone, but the pain isn’t.

In a way, it’s comforting. He just doesn’t know how.

December is hard not just for them, he realizes one day. They all fell in love with those silly things she made them do.

You d’ast idiots. Who even wants these stupid lights? Rocket would grumble. And yet, he was the one coming up with million different ways for the lights to have million different settings. The memory is painful.

All of his memories are.

He passes by their common area, seeing Groot’s big form on one of the chairs, and— suddenly stops in his tracks. They all… pretend around him. Laugh a little bit too hard. Joke a bit too intensely. Look at each other worriedly when they think he’s not looking.

But he does the same—looks at them when they are unaware.

He does it now, too.

And feels another pang in his chest—the usual one at this point.

Groot is…

Not okay.

He’s not a kid or even a teenager anymore, somehow almost as big as the Groot he met all those years ago was. Shoulders broad and wide. Frame tall. Face mature, nothing left of innocent big eyes looking up at him in pure wonder.

They’re full of experience now.

Of pain.

Groot stares at the wall, his face sad, for once lacking any masks, and Peter’s heart squeezes. It’s the wall Gamora used to put the Christmas lights on. She used to attach them to the tiny hooks, letting the reds and the greens and the blues—and then million other colors Rocker would program—take over the space, making it look festive and cozy.

Disgusting, Rocket complained. And then he always straightened the light strings with a careful touch when no one was looking.

The wall is empty now. Metal, grey and copper. Nothing festive. Nothing cozy.

Just… plain. Sad.

Just like he is.

He wants to comfort Groot, he wants to offer him something, but there’s nothing left.

Not now. Not in December.

He’s fine most of the time. He can function. He lives. Or pretends at least.

He can’t do it now.

December was their month.

Now, he’s all alone. Alive, but not living. How could he? His heart died with her. His soul was left back on Knowhere.

I love you more than anything.

He wishes he could help Groot out, but... empty. So empty. Terrifyingly so. So he just simply turns around and walks back to his room, wishing he could comfort the person they both raised. Wishing she was back—so Groot wouldn’t have to hurt at all.

Wishing, wishing, wishing.

Needing her to come back home.

Because with her gone, he has no home.

He feels bad. Like shit. The guilt wins over by the end of the day cycle, and he leaves his room, going back to the common area, to that goddamn wall.

The ship is quiet, everyone’s gone to bed.

Except for him.

And Groot, apparently.

He’s still sitting where Peter saw him last hours ago. Still sad. Still slouched over. Looking as empty as Peter feels. The pain he feels normally multiplies.

He never wanted Groot to suffer.

Anyone but Groot.

Barely anyone loved—loves—her as much as he did. With the exception of Peter, of course. And Nebula, too.

But she raised him. Cuddled him. Let him sleep in their bed when the nightmares were scary. Fed him when he refused to eat because he wasn’t a fan of that healthy stuff she insisted upon.

She raised him.

They both did.

Seeing him suffer is like another punch.

“Can’t sleep, huh?” He asks quietly, stopping on Groot’s left, just few feet away.

Groot doesn’t turn around but nods. His head is low.

“I’m Groot.”

“Yeah, buddy, I miss her too.” The words leave a sticky residue on his tongue. A sour taste that makes him want to wash his mouth until it’s gone.

It’s quiet between them, and there’s so much he could say. So much he should say. But… the words fail him. Not always. Rarely ever. But it’s December.

In December, he has nothing to say.

So he simply goes to one of the storage compartments on the far corner of the room and gets out a box. Just the sight of it makes him want to stomp on it. Smash it against the wall. Throw it out of the ship and let it float in the open Space.

Or jump out himself.

He opens it, worn cardboard box she placed everything in—just like in your childhood, Peter—familiar under his skin. The sight of decorations inside makes him dizzy, but he keeps going.

I love you more than anything.

Pushing the words out, he takes the cord with the tiny lightbulbs out.

“I’m Groot?” Groot asks, confused and unsure. His voice is slightly quivering.

“Yes,” Peter nods, equally torn and excited at the sight of the lights. “I want to put them up.”

For a second, Groot doesn’t say anything. Then, Peter hears him get up.

“I’m Groot.”

And so he helps.

They put up the lights, attaching them to the wall, using the old hooks Rocket installed for their first Christmas. I have to do everything myself around here! Make yourself yourself at least once, Quill!

They take out the Christmas tree they got from Nova Prime as a thank you for saving the Galaxy from Ego (again, Gamora requested it).

They take out the Christmas balls and ornaments.

They put them up.

They do their best to decorate it the way she always did, always with her smile wide and eyes happy. If Peter focuses hard enough, he can almost hear her laugh and the exact Christmas songs he played. He can see himself: younger, carefree, absolutely delighted. He had his girl. He had his team. He had everything he ever thought he wanted and needed.

But they’re not her. Never could be. It’s obvious in the way the lights are slightly skewed to the side. In the way the tree isn’t in the exact same spot no matter how many times they try to move it around. In the way the tinsel is just… not right.

They try, though.

Really hard.

For themselves. For her, too. For the memory of her. For her joy they all felt. For her love and faith in them.

She had that ability to make everything right. To make everything perfect. Him. Their team. Everything else. Small and big. Important and not. When she touched it, it became better.

They can’t do that.

Because she’s gone. And nothing is right.

They still try.

This night breaks them and heals them at the same time.

He doesn’t drink until he gets back in his bed, day cycle almost beginning. Then, he sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard, and stares at their pictures on his holo, taking sips of the Asgardian liquor.

She’s out there somewhere.

He just has to find her.

He is just scared it won’t be enough.

She’s… not exactly herself, Nebula told him once. She doesn’t want to be found. Give her time, Quill.

He has.

It hasn’t helped at all. He still doesn’t know where she is. The only thing he knows is where she is.

Vormir.

Right there with his heart.

They’re smart. They know when he’s upset. He tries to pretend for them, but he can’t.

It’s those moments that Nebula grows uncharacteristically soft and stops glaring at him.

“Stop moping. You’re ruining my mood,” she grumbles from across the table. He can clearly see how much she’s trying to keep her expression neutral.

He just scoffs, lifting a bottle to his mouth. So much has changed, but at least not that. She’s still as snarky. But softer too.

So much has changed. And so much has stayed the same.

“You’re going to kill yourself with all that drinking.”

Good.

Maybe then he’ll see her again.

When he’s particularly depressed, he spends hours looking at videos of the two of them on his holo. He sees the progression of her not even wanting to be in pictures to laughing and smiling wide when filming the two of them.

She went from tentative smiles to wide grins.

He went from wide grins to crying.

There’s a video of them in this room, on this goddamn bed that still smells like her, and she’s filming both of them with an arm extended slightly above their heads.

She’s giving him a gift. A Footloose movie poster she somehow found here in Space.

Who would have thought that it would ever end up here?

He never thought. But it did.

He’s speechless in the video. Then, he’s grinning wide and swoops her around the waste in one swift motion. Dragging her on top of him, he hugs her to himself, and she giggles, leaving quick pecks all over his face.

He kisses her senseless, swallowing her laugh, and his chest—now, in the present—tightens.

He wants to drawn in the memory.

He loved her so much in that moment.

He loves her still.

Always. Forever. Time doesn’t matter. It could be now or twenty years into the future. He just loves her.

It’s December fifteenth, and he’s dreading the Christmas Day. Before, it meant kisses, presents, and happiness. Now, the holiday is just a reminder of how unfair life is.

He can’t do this.

He can’t.

“We need to look for her again,” he tells Nebula.

She freezes for a split second. It’s brief, almost noticeable, but it’s there. She’s been weird lately. Secretive. Sneaking out somehow.

He knows she’s keeping a secret. He just can’t be bothered to ask her about it.

Any other time but not in December.

He looks at her expectantly, needing her to support him, to start the search all over again—the one she stopped couple months ago, actually, a reason why they fought for a week, first yelling at each other and then ignoring each other’s presence until it was Rocket who yelled at both of them, promising to blow them up if they didn’t stop acting like idiots.

But Nebula shakes her head.

“No.”

“No?” Peter raises his eyebrow.

“That’s what I said, you moron.”

He wants to groan. Since he has no reason not to, he does. She presses her lips together and looks at him like he is actually the moron. Like it’s not her who’s being unreasonable.

“We need to find her.” He’s not giving up.

He gave up once before. He won’t now. Not again.

“No. We don’t.”

“Nebula, God help me—“

“Or what, Quill?” She challenges him.

“I…” But he trails off.

Or nothing. That’s the truth. He can barely get out of the bed every morning, knowing it’s a day closer to the day she loved the most. To the day this Gamora—time travel one—doesn’t know she fell in love with.

To the day he’s bound to spend alone, despite room full of people. Of family. Loneliness still washes over him, making him feel even worse. He has his family, and it’s everything. But… at the same time, it’s nothing.

At least in December.

He has no cards against Nebula. Not energy. No threats. He just has one thing that keeps him going: find her. Then, he would be able to breathe again.

So he turns around and leaves. He’ll spend the day with a bottle. At night, he’ll resume her search.

He is drinking. And thinking. Of that first year and her tentative offer to celebrate Christmas since it’s, you know, a day you loved the most. I thought we could do it now, too? Create new memories? Honour your mom?

She was so nervous then, and the memory makes him smile despite pain.

He still remembers the way she anxiously twisted her hands, tugging at her fingers, her leg jumping up and down lightly. She did everything she could to appear nonchalant but looked flustered nonetheless.

The pain he felt over Yondu’s loss lingered, even weeks after. The nightmares he was plagued with—of him not taking his mom’s hand again—left him tired and wary. The only good thing was Gamora. Her soft breath against his neck. Her gentle fingers stroking his hair after another bad dream. Her warm body. Her support.

He loved her. Just like that, for no reason. But especially in that moment, in her attempt to soothe his pain away and give him a sense of normalcy he wasn’t even familiar with.

He agreed—how could he not. He hated Terra, but he loved the holiday. He loved his memories with his mom.

Rocket complained. Groot cheeped excitedly, running around, screaming I am Groot, tinsel and Christmas decorations hanging on his arms and around his neck. Kraglin promised to make dinner. Mantis was excited about everything. Nebula rolled her eyes at all of them but stayed.

Somehow, the tradition stuck.

Year after year, come December first, Gamora would put up all the decorations. Groot would go from helping her—the code for making even a bigger mess which Gamora never minded—to growing up and scoffing, saying it was lame but still watching them from the corner of his eye, even putting his game away. Mantis would dress up in the most ridiculous Christmas outfits with colors that never went together. Or maybe they did. After all, he remembers the combination of red and green from his early childhood.

The ship grew warm. Big. Somehow, it become even more of a home than any other time.

She decorated their bedroom, too. They had a small tree and their own Chrisrmas lights, which often were on when they were in bed—sleeping, not sleeping—throwing warm shadows on Gamora’s face, making every moment even more special.

There’s no lights now. No tree. No warmth. Nothing. The captain’s quarters—their quarters—went from being his favorite place to the place he hated the most.

It’s cold now. The coldest place he’s ever been in. He wishes it was just the heat, something that could be fixed with clicking on couple buttons. But it’s worse. It’s deep. Aching. Paralyzing. It’s not even the cold itself. It’s just an absence of heat that can only be fixed by her body next to him.

The bed is cold. The sheets are cold. His soul is cold.

The loneliness is so suffocating he can’t breathe sometimes.

It’s bad. The days are bad enough. But the nights are the worst. The silence is defeating and suffocating.

He hates the nighttime.

It’s like Nebula knows what he’s up to, and she’s always there in the cockpit, guarding the holo he uses to search for Gamora. Whenever he goes up to there, she’s in her usual seat, glaring at him, following his every movement.

He tries to go against her, but she physically pushes his away.

He wants to yell at her. To fight her.

But he has nothing left.

So he goes back to drinking.

He feels Mantis’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t care.

There’s only one person whose attention he wouldn’t ignore.

He tries to look for her with his holo, but it’s not as high tech as the one in the ship’s comm and track system.

So he sits on the bed, embracing the cold.

He would never change those four years they had, he would never want to not have these memories. He told Thor the truth. It got taken away from me and that hurts, but that shitty feeling is better than feeling empty. It’s still true. He didn’t lie.

It’s just… hard.

She’s out there, but he’s here, and she doesn’t want to do anything with him, and…

He hates it.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night cycle, he hates himself the most. It’s always when he thinks he wishes the other her never came back. Maybe then he would be able to move on.

December twentieth.

He’s cold. Still.

December twenty first.

Nebula leaves again. But he’s so drunk that he can’t even get out of the bed to go look for Gamora.

Mantis knocks on his door, but he doesn’t reply. She leaves after a moment.

December twenty second.

Empty. Nothing but a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

December twenty third.

He cries.

It hurts.

December twenty fifth brings nothing new.

He barely functions. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He ignores them all.

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t want to care. Caring brings pain.

He can’t take any more.

He’s still in bed, knowing that he would have to get out of it soon. They won’t let him skip on dinner. So he drags himself in the shower and puts on the last clean shirt and goes to the common area, hearing Nebula’s hiss from afar.

That wouldn’t be concerning since she always hisses or groans. But this time, it’s heated. And loud—even for her.

“You morons! What have you done?”

“We just—“

But Mantis stops abruptly when she sees him round the corner. Her face falls, then lights up, then grows concerned when she gives him a glance over, and he’s about to ask what’s going on when—

He stops in his tracks. Blinks.

Takes everyone in the room.

Nebula is furious. Mantis is sheepish. Drax is proud of himself. Rocket palms his own face. Groot looks bored. Kraglin tries to stifle his laugh.

And in the middle of the room, there’s Kevin Bacon.

Attached to a chair. With a freaking rope. And with a red bow across his torso.

It’s so quiet that Peter can distinguish everyone’s breathing. They all look at him. And he just looks at Kevin Bacon. And then—

The dam breaks, and he just… laughs. It’s hysterical but…

It’s Kevin Bacon. In space. With a festive bow.

What the hell happened?