half a yellow sun
Summary: “Do you come here often?” asks Gamora, tilting her head.
“No,” says the girl. “I’m just here waiting for my dumb friend Peter.”
The birds coo.
“Would you believe me,” says Gamora, “if I told you that I, too, am here waiting for my dumb friend Peter.”
I had this thought last night and after a month of writers block i sat down and wrote the whole thing in two sittings God Bless America. i guess like it’s set right before infinity war??? idk i took a couple details from the teaser trailer and also HOW PURE WAS SPIDERMAN HOMECOMING here have an obscure fic where gamora and michelle jones hang out on a bench. @ygrittebardots and @taxicabsandcupcakes u both shamelessly encouraged me to write this so im tagging you. title is from chimamanda ngozi adichie’s book which is have been meaning to read forever and sounds like something MJ would read. enjoy!
There’s a girl sitting on the bench beside her, her nose buried in a paper-bound book.
Gamora resists the urge to look over curiously and scope out its cover and pages; she hasn’t seen pressed paper since a mission on an old Xandarian moon outpost nearly ten years ago, and it’s not like she thinks back on that experience with fondness. It’s just – information is more easily stored in mechanized databanks. Everyone knows this.
Gamora cannot help but think that Terrans have a stubborn tendency to do things for the sake of sentiment instead of practicality. For the first time since they touched down on Terra, Gamora thinks that in this, Peter reflects his home planet absurdly well.
In other things – he’s been gone for a long time, is what Gamora has let her thoughts settle on. He hasn’t said anything, but – it’s Peter. He’s not an awkward person by nature, but she’s known him a long time by now, and she’s trained to be observant, and it becomes more evident by the second that he’s out of his depth. It’s in the erratic flick of his eyes, widening from point to point and landmark to landmark, skating up buildings and narrowing at transport vehicles. Cars, he’d called them, she remembers, and files away the knowledge that Terran technology advances swiftly. It’s in the way he holds his arms, close to his sides when he thinks no one is looking at him, and the exaggerated swagger to his walk that she stops herself from calling out because she’s had it mentally categorized as a defensive mechanism from roughly the third minute after she met him.