Chapter Text
Things are...things happen. After. He doesn't want to say it's hectic. He's lived and worked with Ravagers for most of his life. They don't have a fleet of M-ships because they only take quiet one-man infiltration jobs. He knows his way around smoking rubble and civilian casualties.
The smoking rubble on Xandar could be swapped out for any of a few dozen ruined cities he's fought in or skulked through for a job. It usually leads to either shooting his way out when the law shows up or leisurely rifling through the pockets of the dead.
This time the Nova Corps shows up and he doesn't run. He helps them pick through the rubble for the injured. He tosses beacons on the dead so they can be dealt with later. He subdues a few of Ronan's goons that made it through the crash and actually turns them over alive to be carted off to prison.
(there's a surreal moment where he sees Gamora – deadly daughter of Thanos – help an old lady into one of the medical transports. The image burns itself into his brain: Gamora pulling an access ramp down, covered in dirt and grime, spitting her hair out of her mouth, and dressed in his clan's colours)
So, stuff happens. But it's not the roughshod extraction/looting he's grown up with. It's orderly. These professionals are in clean cut matching uniforms designed for mass production. They don't take chances. They don't take risks. They call for back up in places he would have run into blasters out.
When the camera drones start to show up someone decides that now ought to be the time to whisk the newly minted Guardians of the Galaxy out of sight.
Peter's still running high on adrenalin, he wants to argue with the nameless corpsman who tries to usher him onto a transport but Gamora looks ready to run, Rocket is threatening to bite people when he isn't choking back sobs, and Drax's hands keep drifting to his knives when people ask him if he's injured.
They're done. He's done.
He breathes deep and the last of that jittery raw energy drains out of him. He lets the medics bandage up the worst of his cuts and burns. He gets on the transport with the others and tries not to think too hard about how he doesn't know where they're taking him. Prison? A hospital? The nearest spaceport for a speedy deportation?
He ignores the safety warnings to strap in while the vehicle is in motion— he just rode a Kree warship to the ground. He can handle a few sharp turns.
Holy crap.
He rode a Kree warship to the ground!
How did he not end up on the wrong end of physics? He should be a red smear on the ground.
Rocket curls in on himself to muffle another sob.
Groot. Groot is why he isn't a red smear on the ground.
His vision goes blurry. He blinks the tears from his eyes.
(in the split seconds of darkness behind his eyelids his vision is dotted with little glowing spores and newborn stars. The tight confines of the transport turn into glorious sweeping heights; a nebula cradled by branches. A gravelly We are Groot and a longing take my hand whispers in his ear)
He closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the side of the transport. The vibration of the engine thrums against the earpiece of his mask. It sets off a wicked headache, one more fuck you from life. He peels the earpiece off and stuffs it in a pocket.
"Do you think—" Gamora stops as soon as she starts.
Peter slowly opens his eyes. "What?"
Gamora doesn't fidget. Not exactly. The movements are so barely there that he isn't even sure if he saw them but that nervous what happens next? vibe radiates off her. It's probably the most unnerving thing he's ever seen. He's only known Gamora for a handful of days but there is something just so wrong about seeing her nervous.
Her eyes narrow and focus. It makes the burns on her cheeks crinkle and crack. She takes her time, thinking. She settles on, "...do you think we will have to break out of prison again?"
He laughs a little, breathy and quiet. "No idea."
"Suuirtg tnry guueiijyt," Drax says. Which, what?
Gamora looks over at Drax as if he didn't just start speaking in tongues. "Of course."
Drax nods and leans back. "Fiintc waaoiikrs jsouurfg."
It's like his translator just up and died. He slaps a hand to the back of his neck. He hisses and jerks his hand away. It comes back bloody.
"Peter?" Gamora's eyes flick between his bloody hand and...whatever expression his face is making right now. It must be pretty bug-eyed because she gets up and takes his hand. "This is fresh. You're bleeding. Where?"
He makes an abortive reach for his neck. Gamora tilts him forward to look. She doesn't make a sound.
"Do I have...I dunno, a chunk of warship stuck in the back of my neck?" Peter asks when the silence continues for way to long. This is definitely the new most unnerving thing he's ever seen. Or not seen in this case. Still. Unnerving. Really, really unnerving.
"There's a cut." Gamora doesn't elaborate. "Can you feel this?"
"I'm gonna go with no." He can't even tell if she's touching him at all.
(distantly he can appreciate the irony. Unnerving. Right. He's probably going to spend a month under arrest in a Nova hospital for nerve damage at this rate)
Rocket slides off his seat. "Swee'i litsa doah uy?"
He has no idea what Rocket is saying but he can guess. "Uh, I think my translator fritzed out." Peter hopes his translator is on the fritz. Otherwise he's having a really weird stroke where he can only understand hot assassin ladies. Which even he will admit is not as good as it sounds.
Rocket clears his throat as he hops up on the seat beside Peter. "I'm tak'a shoot in the nought that you unbbersan Eneeseks?"
It takes him a minute to understand what Rocket is saying; having to work out if he's getting a garbled translation or if Rocket just doesn't know much Nova Standard Xandarian.
"Uh, yeah. NSX. Stavan system Xandarian too if it's easier for you...?" He tries to think back on all his conversations with Rocket, where he had to dance around an explanation when their translators couldn't match up.
"Or lower or formal Kree?" He isn't exactly fluent in either. He knows how to get along in lower Kree, enough so that he can pick up chicks and chick appearing individuals in Kree spacer bars or yell insults across a battlefield. And he can talk himself out of being arrested in formal Kree. Most of the time. The dumb tourist that just wants a photo act only goes so far when you're caught red-handed.
"Lower Kree," Rocket says as he pushes Peter's head down and presumably pokes at the back of Peter's numb neck. "Yeah, your trabslator's innerface got a durest hit."
There's a really unsettling tug inside Peter's neck that feels like someone is trying to pick his nose through the back of his head then blood starts to leak down his back.
Gamora presses one hand down on his neck while the other tears open a first aid kit mounted on the wall.
Rocket holds out a bloody disk trailing a mess of wires. "It's done fourth." He wipes his bloody hands on Peter's jacket. "Should bur able to get you per-so-nan-nal settings from it."
Peter stares down at the translator implant. His stomach heaves. He just rode a Kree warship to the ground, held an infinity stone, was visited by the ghost of his mom, and now he's getting impromptu brain surgery in the back of a transport from a guy who's probably a raccoon.
It's been a really long day.
"Kvaaoiiwllb, Pee-tor Kill. Boiisd aduuiietp," Drax adds.
Rocket snorts. "Pikli'sli u'yels."
Peter does his best to angle his head up at Gamora without causing anymore damage to the gaping hole in his neck. "They're making fun of me, aren't they?"
"No." Gamora is a terrible liar for someone who's supposed to be an expert at infiltration. She flicks the cap off a can of foam instant-bandage with one hand. "Hold still."
Peter doesn't argue. He's got a hole in the back of his neck that goes straight to his brain.
He spends the rest of the ride willing himself to understand whatever jokes Rocket and Drax are telling at his expense and quietly freaking out that he might have done some permanent damage to his brain this time. Yondu would probably think it's hilarious.
At least they end up at a hospital and not in prison.
He's assessed before he gets out of the vehicle. Which is mostly a nurse in a lab coat making him look up and down then tapping furiously into a datapad when they see the hole in his neck. He's given the datapad which is rapidly blinking bright orange (not a good thing, as far as he remembers when it comes to Nova hospitals) and told to skip the line and go straight to the triage doctor. The others tag along because apparently that's what they do now.
The triage doctor, an exhausted looking Aakon, gives him the professional unconcerned doctor look but says something in that voice doctor's use when they need an answer that very minute or something really bad will happen.
Peter shrugs. He gets the tone. It's serious, whatever it is, but the doctor might as well be speaking gibberish. There were never any Aakons on the Eclector. He's never had a reason to learn it. He's always relied on his translator for Aakon languages.
"No idea what you're saying, man." Peter taps his head. "Translator's gone."
The doctor turns and looks at the others. He decides Gamora is in charge. Probably a good thing. Who knows what Drax would let them do. Dude, can't be trusted alone for five minutes.
Gamora and the doctor talk back and forth. Peter listens to the half he understands.
"In the transport. As far as I know...it's numb. Rocket took it out."
At that, Peter digs into his pocket. He holds out the busted translator. The doctor goes all puffy the way Aakons do when they're freaking out.
Peter looks at the translator. It's covered in blood and grime. He grimaces. "Yeah. It's a little gory but I swear it was sterile when I got it put in."
The doctor takes a moment to process the whole brain surgery in a moving vehicle by some one who is definitely not a professional thing. He very slowly closes his eyes – the Aakon equivalent of taking deep breaths – and asks Gamora something else.
"Oh. No. I don't believe so. He's Terran."
"What's he saying?" Peter really hates not understanding what's going on. It's like being a kid on the Eclector all over again.
"He wants to know if you have mixed heritage," Gamora explains. She waves up and down his body. "Since you look Xandarian but bleed red."
Now this Peter knows. Yondu taught him early to be extra vocal about his health since he's so easily mistaken for something he's not.
"No. Just Terran. Hemoglobin. Systemic heart." He points to his chest. "Uh, just one. Heart, I mean. And I have a wicked urushiol allergy. No miesberry. I get all rashy when I touch it. It's pretty much the worst thing ever if I eat it. You'll probably find theobromine in my blood work. It's fine. That, I can eat. No one poisoned me."
The doctor types the information into the datapad. He gets twitchy about the whole theobromine thing, like every one does. But come on, chocolate is great! That's the universe's problem if it doesn't know a good thing when it sees it.
The doctor asks Gamora something else. Gamora shrugs.
"Do you have someone you want them to call?"
Peter blinks. Normally the answer would be Yondu. That's obviously not an option. He's not a Ravager anymore. Well. Technically , he still is. As far as he knows Yondu hasn't officially tossed him out or put a kill bounty on him. But he's not with the Ravagers anymore which amounts to the same thing: he's got no one to call.
His eyes trail over Gamora to Drax to Rocket. He shrugs and spreads his hands. "Looks like ya'll're here."
The doctor gets even puffier and asks Gamora another handful of questions. Gamora doesn't hesitate to answer this time.
"No, that's just how he talks."
He isn't really sure he likes the implications of that. He talks perfectly fine, thank you very much. He's practically formal compared to most Ravagers.
The doctor doesn't look like he believes Gamora but he doesn't ask anymore questions. He pushes a button and a few moments later they get hustled through a set of doors.
The nurse that escorts them to wherever it is they're going reads over the datapad. They don't seem too concerned that Gamora is answering everything for him or that Drax is scowling at everyone who walks past them. They get to a set of big doors. The nurse stops and points to a sign.
At least the hospital signs are all in Xandarian. This one is easy: No Visitors Beyond This Point.
Rocket says something. The nurse looks petrified. Drax nods sagely. Gamora shrugs.
That's how he ends up getting a second round of brain surgery with an exhausted group of galaxy savers as an audience.
He can't honestly say it's weird having major surgery with some casual gawking from co-workers. Ravagers live on top of each other and have zero clue about stuff like doctor-patient confidentiality and individual privacy. Medical emergencies are public entertainment and crew bonding experiences.
It's comforting in an odd sort of way.
They're stashed in a ward room that was obviously cleared out like, ten minutes before they got there if the rumpled sheets are anything to go by. Gamora and Drax make themselves comfortable looming in the corners with big stabby knives while Rocket gives a running commentary about what the surgeon is doing. It's almost like being back on the Eclector. Which is not something he ever thought he'd miss.
And he doesn't.
Not at all.
...maybe a little.
Jeez, it hasn't even been a whole month since he left for good! He can't be getting sentimental over— he can practically hear Yondu laughing at him from space, sentiment? Thought I taught you better, boy.
He tries not to think about the Eclector and the crew and the funerals they must be getting ready. He tries to stay focused on Rocket's commentary. On the here and now.
It doesn't take as long as he'd thought it would to repair whatever damage was done and insert a new translator. It takes longer to argue with the doctor about wireless updates.
(no thank you. He's seen what happens when you let people remotely access your brain)
The doctor tries to load up his personal settings from his busted translator but Rocket waves him off.
He doesn't know what it says about him that he actually prefers that Rocket does it. All he really knows about Rocket is that he's broken out of a ton of prisons and thinks it's funny to steal people's prosthetics and mods.
Rocket grabs the datapad and plugs it into the port and all Peter can feel is relief.
"Uy t'uw'sli." Rocket taps at the datapad the surgeon gave him. "Koh'i uy online first. It'll take a minute for your custom settings."
"Oh, whoa." Peter scrunches his eyes up. Watching people's mouths when they talk always makes his head ache. The words and the lips don't match up when his brain insists they should. Yondu had always told him it was a common side-effect of getting a translator later in life. That there was nothing for it so he'd better suck it up and get over it.
All these years later and he still hasn't gotten over it.
"Can he understand us talking about his inadequacies now?" Drax asks, looking supremely sympathetic. To Rocket.
"Yeah. I can." Peter flinches when Rocket unplugs the datapad from the new translator.
The surgeon moves in to slather his neck in a temporary foam bandage. "We'll need to run through the auditory calibration and vocabulary checks before I close up the incision. Unless you've changed your mind about wireless..?"
"Nope."
The surgeon sighs. And definitely mutters some completely unprofessional opinions about technophobes.
(which he is not. It's just common sense when you're a professional criminal. You have a better understanding about how network security is more of a fantasy than a reality you want to stake your life on)
"I'll schedule an appointment for the calibration," the surgeon says.
"Yeah. Sure." Peter sits up and tries not to pick at the gross medical foam caked in his hair. "Calibration. Gotta make sure it works."
The surgeon gives him a look that probably gets patients to follow orders but whatever, man, he just rode a Kree warship to the ground and held an infinity stone. He'll get Rocket to stitch him back up later. Standard translators are almost always fine right out of the box anyway. And it's not like they can run any kind of tests for his personal settings.
Gamora promises that they will definitely show up for the appointment and do the calibration.
There is no way he's waiting around for that. He's got all sorts of hang ups around hospitals as it is. Waiting around in one to find out if they're going to be arrested isn't his idea of a good time. He needs to get out. They need to get out. And find somewhere to hole up for a while. Maybe drink until his head starts hurting from something fun instead. They need to have a proper funeral for Groot, right?
The surgeon leaves with another couple do as I say looks. Peter almost feels bad that he's definitely never doing what he says. The surgeon looks like he's really put a lot of effort into those looks. It's a shame that they don't work on him.
"So, are we waiting to see if we're heroes?" Rocket asks as soon as the surgeon is out the door. He opens the nearest cabinet and casually starts to pilfer anything within reach. "Or are we stealing a ship and making a getaway?"
"We did save the planet," Gamora says. There's a hopeful note to her voice.
"After we broke out of prison." Rocket stuffs a handful of packets covered in warning labels into his vest. "Technically we're still criminals."
"Perhaps, then, you should stop stealing from the hospital." Gamora makes a move to snatch the next packet from Rocket's hand but he darts out of her reach.
"If they didn't want people to steal it, then why'd they leave it in a cupboard?" Rocket says like it makes complete sense. He starts rooting around in another cupboard as far from Gamora as possible. "I'm just saying, maybe—"
Rocket and Gamora both turn to look at the door. A second later the door opens and some old lady from Nova Corp comes in. She takes a moment to look at each of them. Peter has the distinct feeling of being carefully scrutinized. Whatever she sees, she doesn't let it show. The old lady has a good game face.
"On behalf of the people of Xandar and the Nova Empire, thank you," the old lady says. "You risked your lives when you could have saved yourselves. You showed true bravery in the face of terrible danger."
"Yep, we're all about saving innocent lives." Peter whips out his very best con-job smile. "You could say we're heroes. Galaxy saving heroes. Guardians of the Galaxy even. Who probably deserve pardons. Who do we talk to about that?"
"But Quill, you said that you only wanted to save the galaxy for your own selfish reasons," Drax very helpfully says. He points to his chest with one of his knives. "And I was seeking revenge for the death of my family."
There's a long drawn out moment where everyone collectively wonders what are you doing? Drax is blissfully unaware of it or just doesn't care. Peter isn't sure which.
Gamora breaks the silence. "Thank you, Nova Prime."
Nova Prime?
He fights the urge to smack at the back of his neck. Maybe it really is a good idea to get the translator calibrated. It's messing up languages he knows.
"I've posted several corpsmen to this floor and more patrol the hospital grounds," says the lady who might be in charge of the whole Nova Corps. She catches a look between Rocket and Gamora. "Not to keep you here, though I highly recommend you don't leave. They're here to keep the media out while you recover."
"The media." Gamora makes it sound like some assholes with cameras are worse than a warship full of Kree. "They'll want to know. About us."
Ah, okay. Now he gets it. Gamora didn't have the best reputation in prison. It's probably not much better out of it.
"We've been flooded with interview requests." Nova Prime— he really can not get over how small Nova Prime is in real life if this is actually Nova Prime. He'd thought she'd be seven feet tall and super beefy.
Gamora's lips peel back into something akin to a snarl. The burns on her cheeks don't crack this time.
"I ain't talking to no one," Rocket pipes up. He stuffs another stolen packet into his vest as if Nova Prime isn't right in front of him. "And I'm not real interested in being recommended to not leave by a bunch of corpsmen."
Drax doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. His whole glower with knives thing he has going on is enough to communicate how he feels about being told to stay put under guard.
"Yeah, I gotta agree with Rocket," Peter says in his ordering the hostages around voice. It usually gets him what he wants when blasting his way out isn't an option. If it works on Nova Prime he's totally going to send Kraglin a bunch of dumb messages about how he should have been lead negotiator more often.
He hops off the bed and does his best leader of the team swagger. Rocket snorts and shoots a look at Drax. Drax brays out a laugh.
Before he can say a defensive what? Gamora steps forward.
(he has another moment. One where he half expects her to start listing their demands; threatening to send out the whole M-ship fleet if they aren't met. She's still covered in dirt and blood but damned if she doesn't pull off the reds)
"We appreciate the offer." Gamora says offer like it's a dirty word. "But I think we would be more comfortable somewhere else." Gamora shifts her stance. It's the barest minuscule muscle movements. It turns her from suspicious survivor to menacing killer.
God, she is so beautiful when she takes charge.
"Somewhere less public." Gamora waves her arm towards the windows.
Peter turns his head. There's camera drones buzzing around outside. In theory the windows have built in privacy screens but he's hacked enough of them to know they're only private as long as no one really wants to see inside.
"And less corpsmen," Rocket adds.
"And less hospital." Peter isn't interested in getting moved to a military hospital instead. Good luck breaking out of one of those, Rocket.
"And less offensive to one's eyes," Drax says, because of course he does. He motions to the light tan coloured walls and wrinkles his nose and gags.
Peter gets the feeling that absolutely none of Drax is an act. The dude just freewheels through life saying exactly what he's thinking.
Nova Prime takes a moment to stare at Drax, probably coming to the same conclusion as Peter. She looks back to Gamora then considers Rocket and Peter. She takes out a tiny datapad and taps it a few times.
"We have several apartments for visiting foreign dignitaries." Nova Prime considers her datapad. She taps it again then puts it away. "There is considerably more privacy and the security presence is less intrusive."
Rocket makes a snorting noise that sounds an awful lot like, prison break twenty-four. Gamora gives him a sharp look. Rocket shrugs innocently.
"I'll arrange for the doctor in charge of your care to have clearance to visit you there," Nova Prime says. She doesn't say anything about the colour scheme of the apartment. Drax doesn't look too upset about it.
"Thank you." Gamora smiles thinly. Her eyes flick to the door then Nova Prime. "I'm sure you're very busy."
Nova Prime locks eyes with Gamora. Peter can feel the battle of wills. It's surreal to watch. He's absorbed enough Xandarian cultural knowledge to know that Nova Prime is a seasoned battle veteran. And he's seen Gamora in action. The two of them put together have probably clocked more combat hours than the entire crew of the Eclector.
"Yes. Very." Nova Prime gives Gamora a curt nod and ignores the rest of them like the dumb losers they are. She marches out, head held perfectly parallel to the floor.
He really can not believe he met Nova Prime. That has to be a Ravager first.
Rocket smacks his arm.
"Ow! Jeez!" Peter scowls down at him. "What's your problem, man?"
Rocket smacks his arm again. "Don't stick your big dumb humie fingers into the incision, moron."
Peter glances at his arm. It's already drifting back towards his neck again. He hadn't even realized he was scratching at the foam bandage. "Oh. I— ow!" He dances back, away from Rocket. "Dude! Cut it out!"
Rocket snickers at him and shoves more stolen goods into his vest. "So, Nova Prime, that was intense. I heard she killed, like, eight guys with her bare hands one time."
Drax makes an appreciative noise. "A great warrior! It's good that her people chose a competent leader."
"I think we should stay."
Everyone stops to stare at Gamora. She does that whole nervous vibe thing again. It's just as freaky now as it was when he had a gaping wound on the back of his neck. It really needs to stop. She's starting to freak him out. Hospitals make him antsy as it is.
"Yeah," Peter agrees. Anything to make it stop. Especially if it'll help Gamora. "They haven't arrested us yet and Rocket was stealing shit right in front of Nova Prime. I think we have a golden ticket."
Everyone turns to stare at him.
"...a golden ticket?" Drax turns the words over in his head. He frowns and shakes his head. "That's impractical. Gold is far too weak a metal for such an item."
He's really going to have to factor in all things Drax into his conversations if they're going to hang out together now. "It's just a saying. It means we're being given a good thing and we should take it."
"It should be an iron ticket," Drax says, apparently incapable of letting it go. "Iron has many more uses and would—"
"The point!" Peter cuts him off before he really starts trying to parse the finer detail of metaphors. "Is I agree with Gamora. We should stay."
"We should?" Gamora doesn't sound convinced now that he's agreeing. He should probably take offence to that but it's been a really long day and besides, Gamora is still in reds and that does things to him apparently.
(which is weird. He's spent years working up the courage to just fucking leave already. That familiar red shouldn't be a turn on. Like, at all. Ever. Yondu wears reds for freaking sake. Gamora shouldn't look so good in them)
"We should," Peter affirms. He waves his hand at their little group, motioning for them to come closer. Team huddles are his specialty. "We've all been losers for a really long time. And we, uh, we lost more today." He motions to the sticks tucked into Rocket's pouch. "But now we're finally being offered something. I think we should stick around and see what it is. What's the worse that could happen?"
Drax opens his mouth.
Peter raises his hand. "That was rhetorical." He thinks better of leaving it at that. "That means you're not supposed to answer the question because we already know the answer."
"I knew that." Drax crosses his arms and manages to pout with all four hundred pounds of muscle and tattoos.
"Great." Peter rolls his eyes. Seriously, the dude is basically made out of muscle, how does he manage to sulk like that? "Anyway, we should stay."
"Yeah, they at least owe us a new ship." Rocket zips and snaps up all his pockets. "And maybe some of those canons they had on their star blasters. I bet I could make a really sweet gun out of a couple of those babies."
Drax starts in on how it's not possible to build guns out of babies while Rocket groans and explains which just leads to more Drax Questions that lead to more explaining.
Peter ignores them in favour of staring back at Gamora.
"What?"
She shakes her head. "It's nothing." She glances at the window where two camera drones are bouncing off the glass like bugs. "You're right. We should stay. See what they'll do."
Peter sidles closer to her. "It was your idea."
She frowns. "Yes. It was." She steps away from him.
He's got the sense that he just struck out big time. He's got no idea why.
Gamora looks up. For one shining second Peter thinks maybe he's got a chance after all. Instead the door opens behind him and a woman with a datapad walks in.
"I'm Liruy Vail, Nova Prime's assistant." She glances at her datapad. "Space Lord—"
Rocket and Drax burst out laughing.
Peter drops his head to his chest. One day the name will stick.