This is my first ever fanfic so publishing this is a little daunting to be honest. I know the summary sucked but I was stuck for ideas about what to say.

This film just caused a lot of emotions that I decided to cope with by writing a very long one-shot. Seriously, i didn't mean for it to be this long at all.

Obviously I don't own Guardians of the Galaxy (unfortunately), nor any characters within the Marvel universe.

I hope you enjoy it!

Peter Jason Quill generally had no qualms with how others perceived him. As far as he was concerned, approximately 94.5% of the 'sentient' inhabitants of this galaxy (94.25% if he was feeling generous) were morons. Morons who tiresomely went along with their moronic routines every single day of their little moronic lives. Morons who were far too idle to have the sense to keep a constant eye on their possessions and units. Really, Peter was doing them a favour when he promptly whipped his hand into their pockets and relieved them of any valuable personal effects that didn't deserve to be in their possession. If he didn't steal them, someone who was a lot bigger, a lot uglier and a lot nastier than he was would do it anyway. He liked to think that he was a reasonably decent guy: a reasonably decent guy stricken with kleptomania, granted, but a decent guy nonetheless.

One thing that Peter had never even attempted to deny was that he was a selfish person. Everything he had ever done since being abducted by Captain Mohawk (or 'Yondu', as he preferred) and his hilarious posse of asinine space pirates had been driven by selfishness. His profession, if you could call it that, literally just involved taking things that he wanted (what could he say, he was impulsive like that). Double-crossing others was second nature to him. So when Bereet had stormed furiously from his ship following their late-night tryst, screaming that he was 'the most egotistical and repulsive piece of shit that she'd ever met', he tried to not think too much of it. He'd spent 26 years of his life navigating this weird and wonderful galaxy (emphasis on 'weird') with a whole ship-load of egotistical and repulsive pieces of shit, so really it was unsurprising that he obtained some of their undesirable qualities over time.

Every now and then when he would be going about his business (drinking himself into a haze of bad decisions, scoring with females of unknown alien species, pilfering valuables etc.) he would find himself picturing his mother, and what she would make of the direction his life had taken. Although his memories of his life on Earth were a little hazy, he never forgot a single detail about his mother. All he had left of her was his mixtape and his memories, and he would be damned to hell if he lost either. He would picture the look of disappointment- not anger, never anger, but disappointment- crossing her face and his heart would sink to the pit of his stomach.

"You're a good person, Peter," she used to whisper to him every night before he went to sleep, "You're my precious little Star-Lord and you're going to amount to such great things."

Great things? The possibility of him amounting to great things was blown out of the water when his mother's heart was stopped by stupid fucking cancer and he was torn from his world by a gang of psychotic space pirates who went out of their way to express their desire to eat his flesh. So instead he drank and he stole and he slept around, spurred on by the knowledge that amounting to great things was not on the cards for him. He was a mercenary, for god's sake. Mercenaries don't amount to great things, they amount to being assholes-for-hire. Granted, he was an asshole-for-hire in space, but really that was just another 'hilarious' way in which the universe had screwed him over. He wandered the galaxy aimlessly, knowing deep down that being a good person simply wasn't possible for him any more. There was no reason for him to be selfless when the last person he truly cared about died in a hospital bed in Missouri 26 years ago.

Then he stole that goddamned orb and everything he had known for the majority of his life was turned in on itself.

Suddenly he was faced with an all too real threat of the galaxy being obliterated by some crazed Kree maniac with a penchant for giant stone hammers and face paint. For some inexplicable reason he, Peter Jason Quill (asshole-for-hire in space), was catapulted head first into the insane new responsibility of protecting the galaxy and saving billions upon billions of lives. He risked his life for these billions upon billions of strangers that he'd never even met. Strangest of all, he wasn't alone. He wasn't alone.

Suddenly, he was surrounded by a group of misfits who had been as royally screwed over by the universe as he had. A lethal (and green) genetically enhanced ultra-assassin who could probably castrate a man with her pinky finger alone, a gargantuan revenge-obsessed maniac who couldn't recognise a metaphor if it slapped him silly across his face, a snarky sort-of-raccoon who seemingly had a fetish for a explosions and had an impressive vocabulary of profanities that astonished even Peter, and a tree. With arms and legs. Whose vocabulary consisted entirely of the words 'I', 'am' and 'Groot'. Most bizarrely of all, this bunch of assholes had grouped together, raised a big fat middle finger to the universe for screwing them over time and time again and had topped it all off by saving the entire galaxy. Hell, they'd probably saved every single fucking galaxy out there. They'd waded into battle fully knowing the possibility that their actions could directly result in horrific deaths, but they had pulled it all off. They'd literally smited the as-before-mentioned Kree hammer fetishist using the raw power of a cosmic stone of destruction- the very power that would have ripped Peter apart atom by atom, unmade every fibre of his being, had his new asshole companions not risked the same fate and shared the burden of the infinity stone amongst themselves.

So now Peter was heralded as a hero by all of Xandar, and he and his new asshole buddies were charged by the Nova Corps with protecting the galaxy from any future threats. All of a sudden, he was one of the good guys. He, Gamora, Drax, Rocket and Groot were the Guardians of the Galaxy and it felt freaking awesome. And for the first time in 26 years, Peter had people that he truly cared about. People he could sacrifice himself for. His bunch of assholes, off saving worlds.

Whatever Peter had anticipated about this whole 'saving the galaxy from dickheads with a death wish' shindig, it wasn't that it would all go so downhill so soon. Earlier that day, the Milano had received a hologram message from Nova Prime whilst Peter had been screeching at Rocket to putthosefuckinggrenadesbackinthatboxhaveyoulostyourfreakingmind, informing them of a renegade faction of Thanos-worshipping brutes that had recently upped sticks and taken up residence on Deo. According to their sources, the thugs in question had gotten their dirty mitts on a piece of Nova Corps technology that could trigger massive seismic waves beneath the crust of a planet, causing horrific devastation and, inevitably, billions of deaths. These turds saw the Deonists- a mostly peaceful and benign race- as 'inferior', and so desired to appease Thanos by wiping them all out.

"Our sources have reliably informed us that the faction plan on setting off the device in 6 hours time," hologram-Nova Prime stated gravely, "Your task is to secure the device and return it to the Nova Corps- by any means necessary."

"What, so can we kill 'em?" Rocket piped up, his attention diverted away from tinkering with the explosive in his paws (much to Peter's relief).

"Not unless it's vitally necessary," Nova Prime stressed, "Ideally, we'll want them arrested and incarcerated in the Kyln for their crimes. I shall be sending the coordinates of Deo to your ship any second now. Good luck." And without another word the connection cut off, leaving an extremely disgruntled Rocket to mutter darkly along the lines of 'fucking hard-assed killjoy' whilst Groot- now around two thirds of his original size and no longer confined to his pot- seemingly showed his approval of the mission by disclosing his sentiment of 'I am Groot' to his team mates.

All in all, it had seemed like as ordinary a mission that you'll get when your job literally is to prevent psychopaths from ripping a hole in the galaxy every single day. They had landed on Deo, diverted Drax's attention from the tantalising opportunity of a bar ("But my friends, surely one drink would not cause much cognitive impairment?") and endured Rocket's endless promises of "I'm going to blow so many new holes in their bodies that they won't know where to shit from"- before warning him that they were not to kill these criminals, however idiotic and pug ugly they were, unless they had no other choice. They set a plan of action in motion (storm the base, cut the power, grab the weapons, beat the shit out of some morons and waltz out again), and went along their merry way to go kick some bad guy's teeth in.

What they didn't expect was they would be so hopelessly and hilariously outnumbered. Or that these guys would be so freaking huge. And pissed.

So by some twist of fate, the man known to a handful of individuals as Star-Lord was being coerced by the frequent laser blasts of some dangerously aggressive goons into seeking refuge behind a hunk of stone. His back pressed against the callous rock surface, he speedily plucked an electric pulse grenade and lobbed it in the general direction of their assailants, gladdened when he heard the familiar roar of a pulse of pure electrical energy tearing through the air and the anguished yelp of a 6-foot-8 zealot whose idea of fun was committing genocide.

"Jerks," he muttered bitterly, digging into his filthy pockets for other projectiles to hurl in the direction of their attackers. Why in the name of sweet baby Jesus did these fucktards just happen to be blessed with a ludicrously tall stature, be built like brick shithouses and be absolute imbeciles? Once again, it looked like the universe had decided Peter Quill was having it too easy and so decided to throw a couple of metaphorical spanners in the works.

He felt a rush of air beside him, and turned his head to his left to see a rather battered looking Gamora crouching beside him, a deep laceration on her right cheek oozing a dark emerald fluid that Peter presumed was blood.

"I think they like us," he shouted over the deafening sounds of the guttural roars of their enemies, the volleys of laser bullets colliding with rock and Rocket's screeches of "BLAM! Murdered you!"

"That dude scares me," Peter declared, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of the raccoon-thing launching a laser pulse into the face of a particularly ungodly looking thug. Gamora gave a slight smirk in response, unsheathing a particularly wicked looking pair of blades from her belt.

"He mentioned something about wanting a battle cry earlier," she said candidly, given her choice weapons a rapid sharpening on the rock that separate the pair of them from the rest of the ongoing conflict.

"There's a surprise." A burst of energy gouged a corner of the stone shielding them, missing Peter's left ear by inches.

His blasters re-energised and his helmet reassembled, Peter glanced to Gamora who in turn gave him a curt nod that could only mean one thing.

Let's take these suckers out.

With a roar, Peter darted out from behind his hiding place and stunned three goons with his twin blasters in succession in just under 5 seconds.

No way I'm telling Rocket that I just did a battle cry, he thought to himself as he swiftly dispatched a twitching thug on the floor with a well-placed kick to the face. He then heard a familiar surging sound from behind him and dropped violently to the filthy ground just as a globule of crackling electricity sliced through the air where his head had been a millisecond previously.

"Missed!" he called breathlessly, firing a forceful blast behind him which resulted in an agonised howl from his attacker as his kneecap shattered.

"Drax!" he yelled at his hulking mass of a teammate, who was currently in the process of grievously pummelling some poor bastard with his bare fists, "Get the device!"

"I will do my utmost!" the towering man bellowed in response, grasping his quivering victim by the ankles and hurling him with a resounding 'thunk' into a nearby boulder.

"BLAM! Murdered you!"

"For the love of god, Rocket, stop killing every bastard you see!" Peter shouted in exasperation as he swerved to avoid a punch thrown by a rather colossal individual with a face like a mutilated gorilla's.

"No can do, Quill," Rocket cackled, "I see 'em, I blast 'em. It's my philosophy." Peter opened his mouth to voice his complaints when he witnessed a tremendous fiery explosion envelop an area a couple of metres before him and felt a hot burst of pain rip through his left shoulder.

Shrapnel, his mind supplied for him, hissing as he grasped the fresh wound in his shoulder. A steady trickle of blood was already seeping from the puncture.

"Peter, you're hurt!" Gamora called worriedly from behind him as she relieved one of the last standing Thanos enthusiasts of his right arm with a clean slice of her blade.

"No time to worry about it now!" Peter shouted in response, grimacing as the movement needed to blast some ugly sucker in the back pulled on his injury. Not too much damage, should heal in no time if it isn't strained.

"I have it!" Drax's voice yelled triumphantly, "I have the device!" Sure enough, Drax had a relatively puny looking black box clutched under his arm as he landed a heavy kick into the temple of some poor (but fugly) soul. Peter felt a grin slide across his face, despite the sting in his shoulder.

The motherfuckin' Guardians of the Galaxy have done it again, bitch.

"Alright, that's all folks! Time to get the fuck out of here and call the Nova Corps for clean-up," Peter ordered, feeling satisfied as he gazed upon the dozens of unconscious bodies that littered the surrounding area.

"I am Groot," the eponymous tree-thing added happily. Peter pretended to overlook the thick curtain of blood that caked the bark on Groot's gleeful face. They don't say we're lunatics for nothing.

"That one's twitching," Rocket said, "Can I shoot him?"

"Well aren't you a little bundle of joy."

"Is that a yes or a no, Shit-Lord?"

"For the love of all that's holy, just get on the ship before I drag you there myself!" Peter threatened, as he blasted in the general direction of the last couple of remaining bastards that couldn't seem to comprehend how completely and utterly screwed they were. Morons.

He caught sight of Gamora sprinting towards them, a mischievous smirk plastered across her dirtied face. She takes way too much joy in inflicting destruction.

Peter was about to return the grin, when his blood froze in his veins.

A thoroughly battered-looking freak with a mangled arm and pure fury smouldering in his black eyes, launching a Shatter-Grenade towards them. Towards Gamora.

Any reasonable sentient being would have recalled that Gamora was genetically-engineered to be able to endure almost every variety of offensive attacks and to have ludicrously fast reflexes, or would have noticed her turn her head and recognise the danger that she was in. But for some unknown reason, this only occurred to Peter once he had dropped his weapons and sprinted in his teammate's direction without a second thought. It was almost as if his body was on autopilot, pulling him him towards Gamora, willing him to reach her. Selflessness.

GrenadegoingtohitGamoramustsavehergetheroutofthewayshe'lldieIneedtosaveher

He tackled her body to the ground just as pure chaos tore through the air around them.

To Peter, time decelerated as he and Gamora began their descent. He saw the Shatter-Grenade split itself into hundreds upon hundreds of deadly slivers of metal, a fusillade of carnage. He witnessed these projectiles cut through the atmosphere, pelting maniacally into almost every direction. Cover your face, some animal instinct deep within him implored desperately.

Time resumed its original speed just as they hit the ground.

Another wave of pain to flare through Peter's shoulder. This barely registered, as Peter shielded his eyes from the blinding flash of vivid light that erupted from where the Shatter-Grenade had found its home.

A moment passed. Peter raised his head. Chunks of metal cluttered the floor around him, some even buried deep within cumbersome slabs of rock.

Shatter-Grenades are such a pain in the ass, he thought darkly as he picked himself up off the floor.

That's when he noticed the ringing in his ears. At first he dismissed it, pinning the noise levels as the cause. Temporary trauma to the eardrums. Should clear itself up in a few moments.

But then the ringing cleared but the world still sounded muffled. Almost as though he were underwater. As he reached to heave Gamora to her feet, he felt a cold numbness seep through his limbs and his grasp around her arm laxed.

The hell?

It was when Gamora's eyes filled with pure, inhibited terror, that Peter Jason Quill realised something was wrong. Very wrong. He glanced down and saw what was causing Gamora so much horror.

The hunk of metal protruding from his chest.

It was as if reality itself was caving in. Peter was so transfixed by the hideous sight of the debris jutting out from his body that he didn't feel himself fall. One moment he was standing, swaying on his feet, the next thing he knew his back was hitting cold gravel. Everything felt so disjointed and numb, almost as if Peter was observing what was happening through a steamy glass window.

It didn't hurt at first. That's what really struck Peter. Your body's going into shock, he told himself. That explained the shakes that wracked his system.

A blurred green shape knelt before him, taking his face in their hands. Someone was shouting at him, but their cries were muted. Now he could feel something hot welling in his chest, gnawing through his veins and bones.

"I'm dying," he heard someone stammer, before realising that it was him, it was his voice. His hearing had returned, hitting him like the freight trains he used to watch as a kid on Earth. The air was swelling with sounds of chaos- yells, disjointed explosions, cries of pain. But Peter couldn't find the strength to care. All he could do was stare into the stars as the life bled out of him.

Someone slapped him sharply across the face. He let out a yelp of surprise, the world suddenly sharpening and becoming clearer.

"Don't you dare say that, don't you fucking say that," a female voice screamed at him, and the blurred green shape defined and he saw it was Gamora's face, twisted with sheer panic. She whipped her head up and screeched at someone Peter couldn't see, ordering them to fire up the ship and that theyneedtogethimtoahospitalnow.

He tried to speak, tried to tell them that he'd be fine, that they didn't need to be so hasty, that his only experience involving a hospital beforehand had been watching his mother shrivel and die in stark white sheets that weren't her own. But the words snagged in his throat, strangling him from the inside out.

"Don't talk you bastard," another voice snapped, "Or I will personally mess up your pretty little face." Rocket.

He tried to quip that technically he was a bastard, as his parents weren't married when he was conceived, but he couldn't drag the words out of his throat. Then he felt the weight on his eyelids, and the world began to dull once more. Drowsiness washed throughout his body, clouding his mind and numbing his senses.

"Tired," he heard himself mumble, and then the hand was back and slapping him hard across the face again, Gamora shrieking at him to wake up, don'tyoudarefallasleeporI'llkillyoumyself.

Then something hard was reaching under his arms and legs, lifting him into the air and causing intense ripples of pain to ignite in his chest. He bit back a cry, but couldn't prevent the whimper that escaped from his throat.

"I am Groot." The tone of this voice was soothing. Peter opened his eyes, not realising that they'd been closed. He saw Groot's face above his, hardened with determination as he cradled his limp body in his gargantuan arms.

"I'm so screwed," he slurred before he could stop himself. The pain was eating away at his chest now, drilling through his ribs, piercing his heart. No more please no more it hurts so much oh god-

"I am Groot."

If I don't die then they'll probably murder me anyway for being such an idiot, he thought vaguely to himself. Then he felt his head loll back as the hounding darkness engulfed his senses and swallowed him whole.

Peter had no concept of time as he flitted in and out of awareness. It was the only thing he knew, other than the throbbing agony in his chest.

At one point, he was able to cling onto this fleeting consciousness. The room spun and contorted before his eyes, and he felt nausea rise in his stomach. Screwing his eyes shut, he shook his head slightly as if to dispel the sickness boring through his veins.

"Don't move," a whisper gently chastised him, and he saw a woman's face inches from his. Something stirred in his lethargic mind, telling him that he knew this woman, that she was helping him.

"Mom," he heard himself murmur distantly, "I did it. I amounted to great things. I'm a good person." He couldn't stop himself, the words pouring sluggishly out of his mouth as if it were not his own. A choked sound emanated from the woman, and a gruff mutter of "he's delirious, doesn't know what he's saying" reached his ears.

"I am Groot," another voice, deep and guttural and yet strangely comforting. He felt something rough and bumpy brush gently across his forehead, as if to sooth him.

A sudden jolt. Flames ignited in his chest once more, and he cried out.

"Peter it's okay, you're okay, just stay with us," the female voice returned, this time panicked and urgent. Gamora. Teammate. Friend. The one he sacrificed himself for.

The colours before his eyes churned and swirled.

"I'm sorry," he said dully, not quite sure who he was addressing.

Then Peter's clasp on reality slipped and he fell back into the arms of the void.

"Piece of trash shouldn't have taken the hit."

The voice was distant, like an echo in a tunnel. Peter sensed light attempting to hammer through his eyelids, and part of him knew how excruciating it would be to open them.

"He knew you could've taken it," the voice continued, "You're a genetically enhanced living green super-weapon, whereas he's just some fragile, mushy human."

"Rocket," another voice pleaded. Tired.

"All I'm saying is if he'd used his freakin' brain, however tiny and decrepit it may be, we wouldn't be in this mess." A pause. "We wouldn't have a man down."

Silence.

Open your eyes, Peter begged his body, Just do it.

His eyelids lifted just slightly. The light was so blinding it felt like it was searing through his retinas, so he screwed them shut once more with a groan. Too bright.

"Peter?" The grating sound of a chair being pushed back, footsteps coming towards his side. "Peter, can you hear me?"

"G'mora?" His tongue felt like cotton in his mouth, making word formations a challenge. Someone exhaled shakily.

"'Bout time you rejoined the land of the living, Quill."

"I am Groot."

"It was a brave thing you did, Peter Quill. Brave, but ultimately witless."

"Th'nks Drax," he muttered, prising his eyelids open once more. The light was agonising, but then less so. And he could see them. His teammates, all crowded round his bed and gazing down upon him with varying expressions of relief.

Bed? Peter craned his neck to take in the rest of his surroundings. Pristine white sheets, screens monitoring his heart rate, various IV lines pumping god knows what into his veins.

"I'm in a hospital," he grumbled.

"No shit, babycakes," Rocket snorted. "You and your unparalleled decision-making skills got you landed here in this Xandarian dump. We had to race here from the opposite side of the frickin' galaxy. I've never been so stressed in my life."

"You very nearly perished on numerous occasions," Drax added, "And, I am sorry to say, you bled all over the furniture of your vessel so you might have to refurbish."

"Gives you an incentive to finally clean it," Rocket chuckled.

Peter looked down at the bandages swamping his chest.

"Look guys," he mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Gamora shook her head.

"Why did you do it?" she asked bluntly, "This wasn't like when you rescued me in space when Nebula destroyed my ship, where I would have undoubtedly died. You know I could've survived this. You know I can endure much more than a Terran, half-alien or not."

Either Peter's thought processes had been greatly slowed by whatever drugs they were giving him or he just genuinely didn't know the answer.

"I didn't really think about any of that stuff," he admitted, "I just acted."

"Yeah well, that weren't the brightest decision you've ever made in your life," Rocket responded simply.

"I am Groot."

"So what if it was brave?!" Rocket exploded, "The jackass damn near died!" He sighed, running his paws through the fur on his head. "Look Quill, you'll never hear me say this again so cherish this moment, but I'm... I'm glad you're okay."

Peter grinned up at him sleepily, "Cheers, buddy."

"Yeah, well, get that shit-eating grin off your face before I slap it. What exactly have they got you doped up on anyways?"

"No idea," Peter replied, "But it feels awesome. Everything's all... floaty."

"But none of us are capable of levitation," Drax whispered to Gamora. She merely smirked.

"Go back to sleep, Peter," she instructed, "We'll be here when you wake up." To which Rocket grumbled something along the lines of 'if I have to stay cooped up in here for another 24 fuckin' hours then I'll start shooting at nurses.'

"But what about the terrorists?" Peter demanded sluggishly, determined to fight off the tendrils of sleep that threatened to pull him back under.

"We got them," Gamora replied, "But don't worry about that. Just rest."

Unable to fend off the exhaustion any longer, Peter allowed his eyes to slip closed, promising he would find out more when he next woke up. Maybe he'd even find out what their next mission would be.

"You guys may be maniacs," he murmured, "But I would put myself back in this freakin' hospital bed for you all a million times over if I had to."

And as he drifted off, Peter Jason Quill knew that the selfish asshole-for-hire was long gone, finally silenced the moment he tackled a near-indestructable ultra assassin to the ground to protect her from a blast she would've survived anyway. He might be an imbecile, he might be incapable of rational thought, but it was as solid proof as any that he lived up to the moniker of not being '100% a dick.' And that was good enough for him.

"You're a good person, Peter," his mother used to whisper to him every night, "You're my precious little Star-Lord and you're going to amount to such great things."

Look at me now, mom, he thought, I've done you proud.

Then he dropped his defences and allowed the familiar darkness swathe him once more.

So there you have it. I'm sorry that the ending kinda sucked, but I've always been bad at endings- probably why I ended up writing so much for this one!

Please let me know if you liked it, or if you want to give some constructive criticism- anything to make me improve my writing skills!

Thanks for taking the time to read my silly little fanfic :)