the scent of pine

“The answer?”

Who knew light could be so violent?

The dark in me swallows the dark in you

You didn’t know your evil would run

like rivulets

To feed the torrent of my power.

Cruelty is no flaw

A wick in the candle charred

I am a monster no monster can kill

Save by one poison

Called kindness

That springs like hot chains to my chest

“Oh, because you’re so great at that.”

He can’t help the barb. It’s just so ridiculous. She’s bleeding all over the moth-eaten mattress from the bullet hole in her side, that he so graciously stitched up an hour ago thank you very much, and now she’s gone and ripped them. He tells her as much.

“And who shot me?” she hisses.

Well, she’s got him there.

“Your coffee’s getting cold.” He nods at the chunk of old tree log he’s been using as a nightstand and makes to vacate the premises. She looks like the stabby type. “Your rifle’s in 15 pieces in the broom closet, I hid the 16th,” he shoulders his pack, pointedly turning his back to her as he leaves. “You’ll want to get that looked at.”

Don’t follow me, he means, and he knows she knows it because she doesn’t move to attack him again as he leaves.

He hears her muttering curses in a language he doesn’t recognize as he closes the door.

—

Anai watches the door close and immediately regrets jumping up to inspect the surroundings.

“Shit. Fuck.” She hisses, stumbling back to sit on the dusty bed. Her weapons are gone, obviously, though the razor tucked on the inside of her belt is still there, so clearly her target is something of a gentleman.

“Son of a bitch.” The stitches she’s feeling have definitely torn, though not all the way. She probably has the stiff bandages around her middle to thank for that. They’re neatly wrapped, and her coat and bloodstained shirts are neatly folded on the end of the bed next to a dented first aid kit. It’s all neat and it’s making her fucking mad. Who the hell is this guy? The brief hadn’t said anything about medic experience or arms training. Nothing that would have prepared her for getting shot after losing him in a blizzard that she’s more and more certain he’d been waiting for as cover.

“Escaped convict my ass,” she groans as she pulls her boots on, ignoring the screaming protest of her side. Her radio box is a mile and a half from where she got shot, she just needs to figure out where the hell she is.

The coffee smells good. Really good. She’s not touching it, there’s probably thallium or something in it. She wonders if there’s any food here that’s safe to eat while she waits for extraction.

Extraction.

“Finish it or don’t come back. I’m serious, Anai. I like you, but this is your last shot.”

quill in denial until mantis and rocket corner him to grill him on it because he’s been staring and listening to even sappier music than usual and it’s so damned obvious

both of them being 100000.00% certain the other would never return their feelings

nebula’s certainty compounded by the ever-present ghost of their gamora, her name on his lips after every drunken stupor nebula used to rescue him from, knowing in the hollowest parts of her soul she could never compare. second place again, always. she’s so tired. she can’t decide if these feelings are more stupid or selfish

quill agonizing over whether or not to tell her, but she’ll definitely kill him, right? he can’t stop blurting out compliments to her though, so it’s bound to spill out eventually. still, she never looks like she believes him

nebula hating her reflection, wishing she was beautiful and then hating herself for the sheer vanity of the notion. as if beauty could trick anyone into loving her. tracing a hand along the raised scars all over her body, the cold edges where metal meet flesh

quill doing a great job keeping his temper in check until the scumbags they’re facing off with call nebula “hideous” and she stays uncharacteristically quiet. he doesn’t remember much after “second-hand gamora-bot”

nebula’s steady bracing weight against him as she drags his sorry ass home from yet another bar fight. “you weren’t even drunk this time, what were you thinking?” she hisses, but he knows there’s no bite behind it. her side presses warm against his

“couldn’t let them say that shit,” quill mumbling like a petulant teenager, hoping she doesn’t take offense to his white knighting

nebula rolling her eyes, “assholes maybe but they weren’t wrong.” quill stopping in his tracks so hard it nearly throws them off balance

quill wanting nothing more than to get it through her head that she’s beautiful. she’s always been beautiful, even back when she was trying to kill them. even more now that she feels like home and the night lamps casting a glow around her right now are just so fucking unfair

mantis rushing out before he can say anything and helping nebula wrap his ankle and busted hand. there’s a second when mantis’ hand brushes nebula’s while they work and he swears a look of such shock and sadness floods her face- but then the sharp sting of disinfectant makes him blink and the expression is gone and so is nebula

nebula spiraling in self loathing - she hates herself, disgusts herself, surely she disgusts him too? and now mantis probably knows

rocket wisely not commenting when she sits down moodily while he works and just. aggressively cleans machine parts. after a while they just relax into familiar, companionable silence

nebula not wanting to risk any of this