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Gamora steps over the Collector's unconscious body, delicately plucking the letter from its shattered case. The glass shards stab into her fingertips as she smoothes the paper, leaving little rivets of blood.
"Got everything you need?" Drax asks, blade slipping into its scabbard.
She gives a non-committal grunt. What she needs is a dead man to keep his promises; what she gets is a ridiculous love note.
It's stupid. She's being stupid, breaking in here, grabbing this memento of the past. It's not going to change anything. There are words pretty enough to quell the fire in her heart. There is prose gentle enough to mend this burned bridge.
She owes it, though, to check. Owes it to him. Owes it to herself.
She should've had this years ago. She should've read it after the war, after he was dead and gone.
Shouldn't be like this, with him living and still gone, still not home.
She kicks the Collector's unconscious form for good measure.
It wouldn't have changed anything.
Gamora reads the letter in between missions, when she's stitching herself up, when the others have all drifted away to sleep. She reads it when she wakes in the middle of the night, reaching for a man that's never there.
She reads it in the quiet moments, when there's no one else around to judge her, and every time her eyes scan those words, she tells herself the same thing: it wouldn't have changed anything.
He's still gone. She's still here.
Nothing would have changed, if she'd had this ridiculous piece of paper. Peter would have become her home. They would have settled down.
Peter would still be dead. Her home would still be destroyed.
A stupid letter, solid evidence of that feeling Richard ignites in her, can't change any of that.
"He's stupid", Gamora decides one day. "That's the only explanation."
Heather doesn't bother looking up, painting her nails a delicate shade of green. It's pretty. Means she's going out with Phyla again tonight, going to try to patch up everything she shattered.
"You are", she says, "fucking deluded. As usual."
She scowls at her. "I am not."
"It's a letter, not a ransom note."
"It's-- it's insane!" Gamora insists. "He couldn't have... he didn't know me."
"Yeah", Heather says, still not deigning to look up from her task. "Like Adam didn't know you. Like Peter didn't know you."
"I'll kill you", she threatens.
"I tried that. It doesn't work."
"I think I could figure it out."
"Doubtful, Gamora", she says, finally looking up, so sure of herself. "You can't even figure out that someone loves you."
She scoffs. "I'm aware that he loved me."
"Loves", Heather corrects. "Present tense."
The words spill easily. "He doesn't. It doesn't matter if he does."
"Uh-huh."
Gamora flicks her finger against Heather's skull. "You're twice as insufferable now."
"And twice as pretty", she shoots back. "Lemme read the letter, if it's got you so worked up."
It's in her pocket. "I threw it out."
"Did you, now?"
"Yes", she says gruffly. "I did. It's a piece of trash."
Heather rolls her eyes. "The Collector kept it for years."
"He's a hoarder."
She puts the lid back on her nail polish with an exaggerated sigh. "You could talk to him -- and actually talk to him, not give him shit for a choice that Peter made."
"Peter--"
"Wanted to go there", Heather finishes. "I was there. He would have found out, one way or another, and he would have gone. All that happened because Richard asked was that his death meant something."
"Not to me."
"Yeah, I've noticed that", she snarks. "But if you can forgive Peter for getting Richard killed, you can get over this too."
She lets Rocket come by, sometimes, when she's feeling particularly generous. It mostly happens when Phyla swings by to see Heather and there's too much obnoxious PDA to be annoyed by for Gamora to have any anger left over for the raccoon.
"And Richard?" She asks one day, listening to him rattle off the adventures of his little team. It's nothing compared to her own, of course.
"Better", he says. He promises. "Got him patched up after the Olympians and he's gone out a few times with Quasar."
"He should be resting", Gamora says without thinking.
Rocket doesn't comment on it. Rocket's probably looking to avoid any attempted stabbings.
Instead, he tells her about the new Quasar, the shared space caused by nega-bands, and Gamora pretends that she's ever cared about a random Earth woman named Avril.
She finds herself mouthing the words during some of her meditations.
She's got the whole letter memorized, can recite it with her eyes closed at this point, and it starts to slip into her most relaxed state. Little shreds of comfort drill their way under her skin and onto her tongue before she can catch them -- she wants to carve them off.
Gamora is not a crier. If she wasn't before Thanos, then she certainly was after him.
She couldn't do it for years and even when Warlock brought her back in a wholly organic body, she didn't bother with it. It's a sign of weakness. It's not a luxury she often allows herself to indulge in.
The tears have attacked her before, however -- when Peter Quill finally granted her the truth she's fought for, when the universe was finally rid of Thanos -- but those have always been... they are extreme circumstances, usually set against the backdrop of utter annihilation.
Teardrops stain the letter. The universe is fine.
Peter Quill is dead.
There's no oversized statue to celebrate him this time. Gamora would've torn apart any monument that was built, anyways. He looked her in the eyes and lied; he does not deserve to be immortalized for that.
They built one, when he was lost to the Cancerverse. It was gaudy and over the top and featuring Richard Rider at his side and the version of Quill made of marble had always seemed better than the one that shared the same oxygen as everyone else.
The letter is her own memorial. The words speak of someone she doesn't know.
She wants to, though.
Richard has the decency to jump when she slams the letter down in front of him. The Contraxian beer he's been nursing splashes on his Nova uniform and he manages an attempt at a glare. It always falls flat, when it comes to her.
"What the hell, Gam?" He demands. "Thought we were done fighting and--"
"I read it", she says dully. "The letter you left me."
He nods slowly. "Well, yeah... left it so you could read it."
"The Collector stole it. I never received it."
His fingers grab at the paper, brushing against her own. "I didn't know that", he says quietly. "I thought you got it after... after the Fault closed."
"No", she says tightly. "I did not."
"I'm sorry, then. I should've... should've left it with Cosmo or Ronan or someone that'd get it to you."
"Did you mean it?" She asks. "The words that you wrote. Did you mean them?"
He has the gall to look offended. "Of course I did. I meant every single one of them."
They echo what he told Peter. They're more honest than what he told Peter. "Richard--"
"I still do", he says. Must be the beer talking, but it doesn't stop, "I swear it, Gam. All I want is for you to be happy and I know you got that with Peter and I'm sorry. I never wanted to take that away from you."
Her fingers scrunch the paper together, pulling it away from him. He has never lied to her. She doesn't think he's capable of lying to her.
And he's not starting now.
She wishes he would, that just once, he could lie to her like everyone else in her life does.
He looks at her, big brown eyes waiting for the hammer to come down, for the venom in her to spring out at him again. He won't complain, no, he'll sit there and he'll let her experience whatever emotions she needs to, and he'll still be there when she comes down.
Richard always comes back to her.
"Our home", she says, voice only wavering a little bit, "is on Halfworld. I imagine Drax would like you to visit for once."
He doesn't bother hiding the surprise. "Visit you guys?"
"If you want to."
The smile she gets is softer and kinder than she deserves. "'Course I want to."
They're just more pretty words for a tombstone, but Gamora finds that they've engraved themselves on her heart much faster than she'd like.
She's alive. So's he. It's a lot more than they usually get.