Ugh, I needed another fandom like I need a hole in my head =/ That said, hello all! I'm now officially addicted to this bunch of a-holes so here's another story to go along with this newfound addiction because I'm my own worst enabler! Yay! I apologize if any of the characters seem a bit OOC, I'm still getting used to writing in their voices so hopefully it's not too weird! Also, the title comes from a song on a theoretical Awesome Mix Tape Vol. #2 playlist I found online. Huzzah fan mixes! Hope you guys like it! :D

A/N: I own nothing =/

"I'd like to know if you're as lonely as I am
And if you'd mind sharing the night together."

Rocket hasn't slept in three days. It's been three long, miserable days since they prevented Ronan and his purple, glowing hammer of doom from taking out all of Xandar. Three days since they had been unofficially dubbed the 'Guardians of the Galaxy' and seriously, what a stupid name. Three days since Groot had transformed himself into an ironclad tumbleweed and subsequently gotten himself blown to itty bitty pieces all over the formerly immaculate courtyard in front of the Nova Corps headquarters. Three long, long days and Rocket hasn't slept since.

He likes to think it's because of his superior biology and the genetic modifications that had been done to make him the way he is. Normally he hates them, feels the metal and gears and wires inside of him twisting like an intrusive parasite. He also thinks it might have something to do with the lingering effects of a massive adrenaline high brought on from nearly being killed more times than he can count in the past week. He's not sure what to attribute it to, all he knows is that he hasn't slept and he needs to blame that on something. It's a hell of a lot easier to accept than the fact that he can't sleep because Groot is a twig and sleeping without Groot is damn near impossible.

And yeah, he'll fight anyone and everyone who has something to say about it because it's none of their business what he does in his spare time. So what if he sleeps with Groot? It's no one's business but his own.

He's always slept with Groot, since almost before he can remember. He found Groot when he was still weak and raw and new, when the modifications to his body were only a few days old and the incisions were still covered in dried blood. He doesn't remember where he was or how he found him but suddenly Groot was just there, tall and looming and offering him shelter from the darkness and the horrors he had faced. He was strong and stable, he didn't ask questions (hard to do with a three word vocabulary) and he let Rocket climb all the way up to the top so he was high and away and invisible in the tree creature's thick, knotted branches. He's slept with him every night since then because Groot keeps away the nightmares and Rocket doesn't feel like a monster when he's around him.

But he can't sleep with Groot now because Groot is little more than a stick and he's smiling and waving and alive in his pot but he's still a Goddamn stick and it's just not the same. Rocket keeps an eye on him constantly and in doing so forces himself to stay awake because he needs to protect Groot while he's growing and he can't sleep without him. It's making him twitchy and irritable though and he silently hopes Groot will grow just a little faster so he can finally get some sleep.

Peter finds out about his dilemma the hard way when Rocket nearly shoots him one evening after he bumps into him in the hallway. Peter is about to apologize and Rocket is about to pull the trigger and he realizes he may have a problem.

"Whoa, hey," Peter says, holding up both hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Take it easy, Rocket. It was an accident."

Rocket grumbles irritably and shoves the gun back into its holster. "Watch where you're goin', will ya? Hard enough movin' around in this junky ship without trippin' over you every other step."

Peter looks mildly affronted but seems to realize Rocket's lashing out is less to do with running into him and more to do with something else. "You okay?" he asks after a second, eyeing his friend up and down carefully.

Rocket growls and bares his teeth a little. "I'm fine. Peachy. Never better. Why do you ask?"

Peter shrugs noncommittally. "Well, you're a little more trigger happy than usual," he says, nodding toward Rocket's gun as indication. "I mean, I get that you're more of the shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy but now you're more shoot-first-desecrate-the-corpse-set-it-on-fire-and-to-hell-with-the-questions. So what's up?"

"None of your business, Quill," Rocket snaps heatedly because he's dangerously close to losing it and he really might shoot Peter if he doesn't leave him alone.

Peter is undeterred and simply holds his hands up again. "Alright, alright, fine. I was just asking. You seem kind of off and I was a little worried. Sorry."

Rocket sighs heavily and scrubs at his face with his paws. The lack of sleep is making him a bit more homicidal than usual and he supposes he can't be mad at Quill for worrying about him. Hell, he nearly shot the guy for asking if he was alright. He sighs again and shakes his head.

"It's not your fault," he mutters after a second, refusing to meet the man's eyes. "I haven't been sleepin' all that well lately. Makes me a bit twitchy, ya know?"

Peter frowns a little at the admission. "Is there a reason you haven't been sleeping?" he asks innocently, no sense of judgement or teasing in his voice. He's genuinely curious.

Rocket grumbles a bit under his breath and nearly snaps at him again but decides against it. His barriers are down and he's exhausted and Peter is offering to listen to him without making fun of him so why the hell not? It might help to talk to someone else about his predicament and at least get some of it off his chest. He figures fuck it, if Quill laughs at him he'll just shoot him in the kneecap and blame it on sleep deprivation.

"I usually sleep with Groot," he admits quietly, the words coming out as a mumbled mess between clenched teeth. "But since he's stuck in that pot, he ain't exactly the best bedmate, ya know?"

Quill considers his answer and then nods with a slight shrug. "I get that."

Rocket frowns and narrows his eyes. He'd been halfway expecting the human to make some kind of joke about the situation so when he doesn't he's not exactly sure how to react. "You do?"

"Yeah," Peter says with another nod. "It's hard to change a routine, especially when it's something you've gotten used to. It's not that unusual to have a little bit of trouble adapting."

"Yeah, well, adaptin' really ain't the issue here," Rocket mutters and then curses himself because he realizes he said it out loud.

"It's not?" Peter asks and dammit all if he doesn't appear to be the poster child for innocent curiosity. Rocket thinks he really must be losing his mind at this stage of the game because his shoulders slump and he feels himself giving in to the gentle questioning.

"No, it's just…" he stops and fumbles with the gun holstered at his hip, paw traveling over the butt of his gun. He refuses to meet Quill's eyes and the absent fidgeting helps take away some of the embarrassment at admitting all of this to another person. "It's easier to sleep when Groot's around because I don't dream as much. When he's there I just…" he shrugs and shakes his head. "I don't know. It's stupid, I guess."

"No, it's not," Peter tells him, shaking his head with a frown. "It's not stupid at all. You should have told us sooner."

Rocket almost laughs at that. "Oh yeah? And what was I supposed to say, huh? I can't sleep because my best friend has been turned into a stick and I can't use him as my own personal dream catcher anymore? Yeah, right."

Peter just shrugs like the answer is obvious. "Well, yeah. I mean if we'd known maybe we could have helped you out sooner."

The other thief just shakes his head wearily. "Thanks for the suggestion, Quill, but I doubt anything's gonna help until Groot gets himself outta that pot again."

Peter is silent for a moment, contemplating something in the stillness of the hallway. "You're welcome to bunk with me if you want," he says finally, the offer just as innocent and nonchalant as if he were speaking about the weather.

Rocket's ears flatten slightly and he can't quite rope in the growl that rumbles out of his throat. "Not a chance, pal. I ain't about to share a bed with you. No tellin' how many other things you've had in that room with you and I ain't about to get lumped into that category if I can avoid it."

The human just rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. "Okay, first of all, I haven't had that many 'things' in my bed, just a handful. This is my ship, not a den of ill repute. Second, the sheets are clean, I washed them yesterday. And third, I'm trying to help you out here. You're obviously exhausted, you're about a split second away from shooting everyone onboard, and I can pretty much guarantee you're a lot safer bunking with me than you would be with Drax or Gamora."

He shrugs and steps away, making his way down the hall toward his room. "You wanna continue stumbling around the ship like a sleep deprived zombie, go ahead. My offer still stands though."

And with that he's gone, disappearing around the corner and leaving Rocket standing alone in the hallway. The thief is torn between pissed off and indignant about Quill's offer or taking him up on it and following him into the room. He knows Quill is right about the sleeping arrangements; he's still a bit shifty around Gamora, her being a daughter of Thanos and all (even though she openly disavowed him as a father every chance she got) and he doesn't trust Drax not to freak out and stab him if the incentive was right so sleeping with Peter really was his best option. Still, taking him up on his offer would be admitting defeat and he never had and never would willing do that.

He sways just the tiniest bit in the hallway, fatigue and exhaustion finally catching up with him. He's dizzy and his limbs feel heavy and weighted and his eyes itch from lack of sleep. Ugh, fine, what the hell, he'll take Quill up on his offer for this one night and maybe, just maybe he can get enough sleep to get him through the next few days without accidentally shooting one of his newfound teammates.

He sighs and grumbles and bitches his way all the way down the hall but he does go and eventually finds himself standing outside of Quill's door. He hesitates for a second or two, wondering if he's really going through with this or not, before he finally gives in and presses the button to slide the door open.

Peter is stretched out along the bed, fully clothed (thank God) with those ever present headphones pressed against his ears. His eyes are closed but he's mouthing along to the music playing through the Walkman so Rocket knows he's not asleep. He turns his head just slightly when the door opens and he sees Rocket walk in. Neither of them say anything and Peter just pats the mattress lightly with one hand.

Rocket grumbles some more before finally giving in and walking across the room. He drops his gun beside the edge of the bed and climbs up onto the mattress, reluctantly stretching out alongside the human. Peter scoots over just enough to give him a bit more room but otherwise he doesn't say anything. Rocket says something though because he feels like he needs to and he feels like it's absolutely, 100% necessary.

"If you tell anyone about this, Quill, I swear I'll shoot you in the dick," he mutters quietly and Peter just smirks and closes his eyes as the music plays on.

True to his word, Peter doesn't say anything about their sleeping arrangement the next morning. He doesn't mention the fact that Rocket sprawls all over the bed like he's been tossed out of a moving ship or that the most comfortable way for him to sleep is draped across Peter's chest like a furry scarf, ringed tail flopped halfway over his throat.

He doesn't mention the fact that sometimes Rocket twitches and stirs and whimpers in his sleep, snippets of memory from the things that had been done to him creeping into his nightmares and leaving him restless and agitated. He doesn't say anything about how stroking the soft fur along his snout and between Rocket's eyes with his thumb calms him down and chases away the nightmares.

And he certainly doesn't say anything about the fact that Rocket drools and it causes his fur to stick up weird in the morning and how Peter woke up with a cold, wet nose pressed into the underside of his jaw and Rocket was actually nuzzling him in his sleep. He doesn't say anything about any of this because it's the first time Rocket has gotten any sleep in the past three days and he feels that if he brings it up then the fragile, awkward trust between them will be broken for good. Also, he fully believes Rocket's threat about shooting him in the dick.

So Peter stays quiet and doesn't say anything because really, it's not his place to tell.

OOOOO

Drax has bad nights sometimes. Sometimes he awakens with a jolt, blades lashing out and a broken cry on his lips. Sometimes he wakes up with arms outstretched for someone he just can't reach, gasping his wife's name or crying out for a daughter who is just a little too far away. Sometimes he just wakes up and stares at the ceiling for hours, jaws clenched and unshed tears shining in his eyes. Those nights are the worst because he can't even bring himself to weep for his family anymore, all he can do is lay there and curse his continued existence with every breath he takes.

Tonight happens to be one of those nights and he wakes up with a shudder and gasp, fists clenching tightly at his sides. There's a very brief memory when he can see his daughter's face, hear his wife's voice when she's not screaming in pain. He wants to hold on to those memories for as long as possible because they're becoming fewer and fewer as time goes on.

"Drax?" a voice asks and his head whips to the side at the sound of his name. Peter is standing by the door, lingering just outside and peeking into the warrior's room. He keeps his distance because the team has learned the hard way that getting too close to Drax whenhe's in the throws of a nightmare generally ends with one of them getting bloody. He doesn't mean it, he never does, but the knives he keeps with him are very sharp and the nightmares he has are very real. Sometimes he lashes out without realizing and it's only quick reflexes and sheer luck that keeps his teammates from being skewered.

He lets out a slow, steadying breath when he realizes it's just Peter, not the phantom of Ronan from his dreams. "I apologize," he says slowly, glancing from the blades gripped in his hands to the human standing in his doorway. "I did not mean to wake you."

Peter shrugs and steps into the room, coming to the conclusion that Drax isn't about to gut him if he gets too close. "Nah, you didn't wake me. Wasn't really feeling the whole sleep thing tonight anyway."

"I was not aware that Terrans felt sleep," Drax comments vaguely and Peter just shakes his head with a small laugh.

"No, not literally," he says, walking further into the room and plopping down on the edge of the bed near the warrior's feet. "I meant I wasn't tired. Couldn't sleep."

Drax nods in understanding then, moving his legs to give the human more room. They'd all realized rather early on that Peter didn't exactly have boundaries and would invade the personal space of anyone who wouldn't immediately try to murder him. He was all about playful shoves and casual touches and would lounge pretty much anywhere, especially on the ship. Drax didn't exactly understand it but it was oddly endearing in a way he found he didn't mind it particularly much.

"It appears you and I are faced with the same predicament," Drax mutters quietly, sitting up a bit further and propping his back against the wall.

"Yeah," Peter agrees, adjusting himself to a more comfortable position on the bed. Apparently he's determined to make himself at home and Drax really doesn't have the energy to protest at the moment. "And unfortunately there are only so many sheep you can count before you're ready to jump off a cliff."

Upon Drax's perplexed expression, Peter waves off the statement absently. He glances back at him, taking in the warrior's stiff posture and the way he's still half-gripping one of his blades like he's still not entirely convinced he won't be using it anytime in the near future. "You seemed pretty upset when you woke up," he comments quietly, watching Drax from the corner of one eye. "Everything okay?"

Drax doesn't answer for a moment, choosing instead to slowly, very slowly, release his grip on the blade in his hand. "Memories of my past haunt me. My failure and my defeat," he admits softly, eyes fixed on the gleaming metal of the blade. "My inability to save my family."

Peter listens quietly, eyes watching the warrior across from him. For all his rage and moments of madness, the pain of losing his family was still raw and present like a gaping wound. He was angry and impulsive, sometimes completely irrational and borderline suicidal, but Peter can't really say he blames him. He remembers feeling like that after losing his mother.

"Wanna talk about it?" he offers carefully after a moment, watching as the larger man slumped slightly against the wall.

Drax shakes his head slowly. "The pain I feel, the loss and the emptiness...I do not know how to put it into words."

Peter nods in understanding; he knows that feeling all too well. Right after his mother had died, when he'd been abducted from his home planet and whisked away to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, there wasn't a word in the English language he could think of the describe what he felt. He was alone, in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, and he had been more terrified than he could ever remember being in his life. He'd cried, lashed out, fought everyone who came close, but it never seemed to help.

"Well," Peter says, leaning back so he's resting against the opposite wall. "It might not be much but sometimes it helps to have someone else around for a while. Gets your mind off things, you know?" He shrugs one shoulder and smiles a bit. "I could hang around for a while if you want."

Drax contemplates his offer for a moment before nodding once in approval. "I would appreciate that."

"Great," Peter says with a smile, tilting his head back against the wall. He's silent for a moment, contemplating his next words carefully. He's cautious not to cross the precarious line between trying to be helpful and outright intruding but he feels he should at least try to offer a solution, no matter how small.

"You know, I used to dream about my mom a lot after she died," he begins quietly, keeping his tone light and gentle to keep from upsetting the other man further. "Nightmares sometimes. Really terrible things that would just wreck me for days."

Drax tenses across from him, fists clenching just a little and shoulders going rigid. "And how did you overcome these dreams?" he asks after a moment, his tone flat and quiet.

"Well," Peter says after a second, turning his gaze across the room to the port window blinking out into the vastness of space. "I don't know that it's something you ever completely overcome. But I found that it helped if I tried to remember her before she got sick. You know, happy memories to cover up the bad ones. For every nightmare I had, I did my best to replace it with something happy instead."

The warrior nods slowly as he listens. "Your reasoning makes sense. I can understand why you would prefer to cling to more joyous memories rather than painful ones."

Peter glances back at him. "You could try it too, you know. Maybe remembering your family in better times would help override the nightmares you have."

Drax frowns darkly and shakes his head. "Forgive me, Quill, but I don't know that anything will erase their deaths from my mind."

Peter shrugs slightly and crosses his arms over his chest. "It's worth a shot," he says, watching Drax from the corner of his eye. "You might be surprised."

The tattooed warrior sighs heavily in acceptance. "Very well," he says slowly, looking at Peter carefully. "I will take your advice. What are your recommendations?"

"Well," Peter begins, scrolling through the rolodex of topics in his head. "Tell me a little about your wife. What was she like?"

"She was…" Drax starts and Peter is kind enough not to dwell on the way his voice cracks a small amount over the word 'was'. "She was everything. She was intelligent and fearless and strong; incredible in every way. I loved her from the moment I met her."

A slightly wistful expression appears on the warrior's face and his posture seems to relax a bit as he speaks. Peter smiles slightly. "What was your favorite thing about her?"

Drax is silent for a moment, contemplating the question. "There were so many things," he says quietly, fingers of one hand tracing over one of the tattoos on his arm. "If pressured to pick only one I would have to say her laugh." He smiles faintly at the memory. "It was musical and full of life. When I was with her, I felt that I could never know a greater kind of love."

The smile remains but this time it's warmer, more gentle than Peter has ever seen. "When our daughter was born, I knew that I had been wrong. Through her, I found the true meaning of happiness."

"She sounds like a great kid," Peter comments quietly and Drax nods.

"She was my world, the greatest treasure I have ever known. She had the strength to move mountains and I was completely at her mercy from the moment she was born." Drax's smile fades just a little, sadness lingering at the edge of his expression. "I would have given her the universe if only she had asked."

He looks away then, turning his attention to the distant stars glimmering outside the window. "I sometimes wonder if it would not be easier to fall in battle, to accept my fate for the opportunity to be reunited with my family. The fleeting pain of death would mean little to me if it would offer me a chance to see my wife and daughter again."

He glances down at the blades still only a few inches from his hands but he doesn't reach for them. "But such thoughts are always chased away when I realized I can better honor their memory by defending others from the same such horrors they faced. Protecting other planets, keeping innocent families safe from monsters like Ronan and his kind…" he fades off and offers a small, sad smile. "I feel that that is the only way I can ensure a proper reunion with my family after my life ends."

Peter smiles quietly at the explanation and nods. "That's very noble of you Drax. I'm sure your wife and daughter would be very proud of your decision."

The warrior tips his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Quill. You are a good man and a reliable ally. I am grateful to call you my friend."

The human smirks and nudges the tattooed man with his knee. "Alright, alright.
No need to get all soft on me."

Drax frowns and looks down at his body in confusion. "I am not soft."

Peter just rolls his eyes in response. "Just an expression, Drax."

The warrior sees to accept this without another comment and they fall into an amicable silence for a few moments. "I still see them sometimes when I dream," he says quietly after a minute or two has passed, the admission little more than a whisper. "I can see their faces, remember the sound of their voices. I remember them from a time before Ronan and the destruction of my planet, I remember happiness and love and joy. Those are the dreams I hold on to. Those are the dreams I hope for."

Peter just smiles softly. "Me too, big guy. Me too."

The silence between them stretches on a bit longer this time, the gentle rumble of the engines filling the void left by the lack of conversation. Peter stares across the room to the twinkling cosmos passing by outside the window. Ever since their whirlwind meeting and their literal trial-by-fire-work-together-or-die partnership, Peter had made it a point to find out more about his newfound companions. He knows very little about them and is determined to change that even if it kills him. He wants to find out more about Gamora's past, figure out where Groot came from, find the bastards who tortured Rocket for so long and put a boot up their ass. Speaking with Drax, listening to him talk about his wife and daughter, he thinks this is the most he's learned from any of them since they all met.

He feels like in the silent stillness of the room, he can ask him about his home planet and his life before being sent to the Kyln. He could find out more about his life, the meaning behind his tattoos, where the hell he'd learned to wield a knife like that. Asking those questions now would take away some of the pressure of asking them during the waking hours, when they're all alert and fully aware of the things being asked. He figures he has nothing to lose so he might as well ask now.

"Hey Drax, you never told me about-" Peter begins but he stops when glances over at the other man. The warrior is still propped against the wall, arms crossed lightly over his torso, but his eyes are closed and his breathing is deep and even. His expression is more relaxed now, less strained and tense than it had been when Peter had first arrived. He looks at peace and there's almost the barest hint of a smile on his face. Peter hopes he's having better dreams now.

He smiles faintly himself and gets a bit more comfortable against the wall. He's sure that if he moves now he could run the risk of waking the other man and if he is having happier dreams about his wife and daughter, he would hate to interrupt. Peter tilts his head back, eyes growing heavier as they continue to track the stars outside.

"Sleep well, big guy," he mumbles quietly before closing his eyes and follows Drax's example.

OOOOO

He finds Gamora sitting at the bottom of the stairs, knees pulled up to her chest and arms resting on top of them. She'd been noticeably quiet since they'd returned to the ship, preferring to isolate herself away from her teammates and venture into the lower levels of the Milano. It was quiet down here, empty, a place for her to dwell on her guilt and shame in silence and away from prying eyes. Peter wasn't about to give her that luxury because she didn't deserve it, at least not in his mind.

She doesn't look up when he takes a seat on the step beside her but he's 99% certain she knew he was there before he ever cleared the first landing. Gamora could hear a moth's wings from half a mile away, he was nearly sure of it. She glances at him from the corner of her eye when he sits down though, her expression unreadable.

"What are you doing here, Quill?" she asks, her tone quiet and flat. Peter curses inwardly; he remembers that tone, she'd used it the first time they met and when they all got shipped off to the Kyln together. It was empty and emotionless, hollow words spoken from a dark, cavernous place deep within.

"Wanted to check on you," he says simply and it's not really a lie; he was concerned for her and wanted to make sure she was alright after their mission earlier but more than that he wanted answers for her actions during said mission. The assignment had been just short of a shit storm from the very beginning but it had gone from pretty bad to absolutely terrible in just under three seconds flat and Peter wanted to know why.

"I'm fine," Gamora tells him shortly and there's the barest hint of irritation in her voice. Peter's not sure if he prefers that over the flat tone she'd been using before; when Gamora was irritated it usually ended in blood and bruises at the very least.

Peter weighs his options and decides not to push it. His eyes linger on the darkened skin beneath her eye, the small cut along her cheekbone. After everything that happened, he's mildly surprised that a black eye and a cut were the only injuries she sustained. It could have been much, much worse and the fact that Gamora let it happen in the first place was gnawing at him incessantly.

"So are we going to talk about what happened earlier?" he asks before he's even aware he's spoken. He'd actually been trying to figure out a more subtle way to breach the subject but the portion of his brain that controlled basic motor functions decided to hell with that and opted for the more direct route instead.

Gamora glances at him again, eyes narrowing slightly. "I would prefer not."

It's around this time that Peter decides he's way too far down the rabbit hole already and he may very well lose a finger or possibly a hand for this but he presses on anyway. "Well I think we should," he continues, actively ignoring the dark look she casts his way. He rolls his eyes and presses on.

"Gamora, listen, if we're all going to work together, if we're going to keep this whole 'Guardians of the Galaxy' thing up, we have to talk to each other. And yeah, sometimes we may have to talk about some pretty painful shit, but it's necessary to keep this partnership or whatever this is functional. Right?"

Her glare continues but there's a very slight loosening of her shoulders, a slump that betrays the fierce look she's giving him. She knows he's right but admitting it is something she'd rather not do. Give him that and it'll go straight to his head and she knows it. Finally she sighs quietly and looks away. "You know why they attacked me, Quill."

Peter nods in agreement. "I do," he says simply, his eyes never leaving her face. "But what I want to know is why you let them do it. You could have easily fought back, gotten free. Hell, you could have at least defended yourself. But you didn't. And I want to know why."

She says nothing for several seconds but her eyes are dark and conflicted. In a way, Peter thinks he already knows the answer. He knows enough about Gamora's past to know that she had been a highly regarded pawn in Thanos' games and that she had been forced to do her fair share of his dirty work while stuck in under his thumb. She blames herself for the atrocities Thanos had caused and the things she had done while under his control.

The people who had attacked her earlier were some of the few remaining survivors of a planet Thanos had destroyed years ago. The fact that said group had been off planet for one reason or another when Thanos made his move was the only thing that saved them. They weren't exactly thankful for this when they returned to find both their planet and their loved ones obliterated. The survivors had developed a tiny community on the planet Peter and his group had touched down on and it hadn't taken long for them to pick Gamora out of the crowd. And, even though Peter was relatively certain Gamora had nothing to do with the destruction of that planet, the fact that she was associated with Thanos made her just as bad in the minds of the survivors.

Their attack was quick and coordinated for such short notice and Peter actually blames himself a bit for not realizing what was happening until it happened. The street they had been on was crowded and choked with people, many of them milling around and hovering near open doorways and side streets. It was on one of the side streets that the survivors had planned their ambush. The crowd had swelled between them, separating Peter from Gamora, and he hadn't realized she'd disappeared until a few minutes later when he'd turned around to find her missing. He was well aware that she could take care of herself but something about her disappearance set off warning bells in his mind and he backtracked quickly in hopes of finding her.

He found her in an alley, surrounded by at least eight large, heavily armed men. They were snarling and growling at her, calling her names that would curl paint off the walls, and Gamora just took it. She didn't try to fight back, she didn't defend herself, she just allowed the insults and curses they threw her way. Her expression had been one of quiet acceptance and resignation, as if she not only approved of this assault but also welcomed it. Even when one of them raised his weapon at her, she still didn't move.

Peter did though and he surged forward in an effort to dispel the ugly confrontation that was about to get worse in a hurry. He figured he could talk them down, work it out without the end result involving violence and murder. He was wrong; the men wanted blood, more specifically, Gamora's blood, and they wouldn't be happy until they had it. Realizing this, Peter did the only thing he could think of: he dropped a flash bomb and grabbed Gamora while the men surrounding them were blinded. They got away from the alley and away from the men just as Drax and Rocket appeared with their bounty.

Gamora said nothing about the encounter and pulled away from them on their way back to the Milano. She was quiet and rigid and disappeared into the depths of the ship the second they got back. No one had bothered to talk to her for fear of having some bone in their body broken in the process. No one except Peter.

He has her cornered now though and he's not about to back down if he can help it. Gamora is still hesitant but he'd pretty sure he already knows what she's going to say so he says it before she can.

"You know," he starts, looking away and staring out across the interior of the ship. "My mom used to say that dying for others doesn't always make you a martyr. Throwing yourself under the bus may seem like a good idea at the time but it doesn't solve much in the long run."

Gamora scoffs quietly and rolls her eyes but allows him to continue. "There's a big difference between accepting blame for something and craving it. And sometimes it's hard to tell which is which."

A heavy silence falls between them for a moment and Gamora takes a deep breath before she speaks. "The men who attacked me earlier," she begins, choosing her words carefully. "They were angry and vengeful and hurt. They wanted to avenge their families and the homes they lost, everything that Thanos destroyed. They couldn't get to him but they could get to me and…" She fades off and shakes her head slowly, her eyes still dark and troubled. "I couldn't blame them."

She looks at Peter then and this time the irritation from before is gone. "When my own planet was destroyed and Thanos took me prisoner, I took out my rage and anguish on everyone who got close. I couldn't kill Thanos, that would have been impossible, but I could kill the scientists who experimented on me, the one who made me what I am today."

She shakes her head again, her jaws clenching a little. "I knew they weren't responsible for what Thanos had done but it didn't matter; they worked with him, allowed him to control them, and I hated them with every fiber of my being. I destroyed them without mercy and without remorse because it was the only way to express my grief."

There's a very tiny shrug of one shoulder before she continues. "Ironically, in doing so, it made me a favorite of Thanos, a preferred warrior and and a choice assassin for anything he needed done. My hatred of him made only made him prouder of the killer I'd become."

She sighs and looks away, her shoulders slumping slightly. "When I was attacked earlier, I didn't stop them because I understood. I knew their pain and anger, I understood why they wanted to hurt me because I had done the same thing when it happened to me. I did not crave their condemnation but I did understand it."

Peter nods slowly when she finishes. He'd been expecting as much but he wanted to hear it from her before jumping to conclusions. He vaguely wonders if Gamora's guilt from her past actions will ever fully absolve itself but he highly doubts it. To have everything you love be destroyed and then have the person responsible for its destruction use you as his own personal plaything...well, Peter can't really imagine a worse kind of hell.

"I get it, you know," he says after a minute, watching as Gamora's eyes slide back to him. "I used to get in fights a lot when I was a kid, back when my mom was sick." He pauses for a minute because it's still painful even after all these years but he forges on anyway. "I didn't really understand it at the time, I didn't know why she was sick or why she was in the hospital or why my grandparents were talking about how to raise me. None of it made sense to me and I lashed out because of it. One wrong word or a joke that went too far and I would just lose it."

"I got in fights all the time, sometimes for the stupidest reasons. But to me it made sense because I didn't know how else to react. And my mom, she just…" He sighs quietly and shrugs. "She never got mad at me, no matter how many times the school called or how often I came home with a black eye and a split lip. She never got mad because I think she understood. And I mean, yeah, that didn't make it any better but she knew why I was acting out like that."

He passes a hand through his hair awkwardly, ruffling it out of place. "She would just wrap her arms around me and hold on like she never wanted to let go. And then she would tell me it was better to fight for the right reasons than to get beaten down for the wrong ones. I didn't really get it at the time but...I guess I do now."

Gamora gives him a small, sad smile, her expression almost wistful. "Your mother sounds like a very wise woman."

Peter nods once in agreement. "She was."

Gamora's smile is still sad and she frowns down at the steps below them. "I barely remember my mother. Sometimes I can't even remember her face." She sighs heavily and slumps sideways so she's leaning against Peter's side lightly. He freezes for a split second before relaxing slowly and wrapping his arm around her.

She doesn't cry, she's a warrior and an assassin and warrior/assassins don't cry (they also don't dance, sing, tell jokes, snort when they laugh, or get scared of the flying spiders from Tovar province). But she does rest her head on his shoulder and she allows him to tuck his jacket around her shoulders and wrap an arm around her and hold her close in the silence of the lower decks.

"I hate what I've become," she says quietly and and Peter doesn't really know how to respond to that so he just holds her close.

They stay that way for a long time, possibly hours, before Peter realizes Gamora has fallen asleep on his shoulder. She's leaning against him a bit more heavily and her breathing is deep and even and she's snuggled in his jacket like a purring green kitten. The simile is quickly banished from his mind when he remembers that Gamora could very easily dismember him with a ballpoint pen and comparing her to a fluffy kitten is probably the easiest way in the world to sign his own death certificate.

He adjusts the jacket a bit higher on her shoulder and rests his cheek on top of her head. Her hair is soft and silky against his skin and it has the faint scent of cinnamon and amber and cloves. It reminds him of his mother's perfume, the one she wore every day before she got sick. He wonders if they even still make it anymore.

He breathes it in and closes his eyes, remembering his mother's smile and her laugh and the way her beautiful strawberry blond hair fell in waves past his shoulders. He closes his eyes, holds on to Gamora, and dreams of home.

OOOOO

Groot likes it when Peter sings. He's still too small to speak very much and even then, his vocabulary is still limited to only three words so he can't exactly say he likes it. But when Peter sings, he'll dance and move and wave his arms to the words and he hopes that Peter understands the excitement.

Peter finds out about this on accident one day. They all take turns keeping an eye on Groot while he's confined to the pot and continues to grow. Rocket spends most of his time with him, and the others alternate in and out so their twiggy little friend doesn't feel left out of the group. Occasionally Rocket will bring him up to the higher decks of the Milano and set him on the dash so he can see where they're going but for the most part he stays below deck in one the spare rooms Rocket converted into a sun room. A few UV lights and some reflective metal sheets and Groot has his very own slice of sunshine no matter where they go. The only problem with so much direct exposure to UV lights is that Groot can dry out pretty easily and has to be checked several times throughout the day to make sure his limbs aren't getting damaged.

It's during one of these checks that Peter discovers Groot's musical secret. He comes in one afternoon with a pitcher of water and his walkman. Groot beams at him when he walks into the room and Peter grins back.

"Hey there, Jolly Green, how's the sunlight today?" he asks, pulling the headphones off and letting them hang across the back of his neck like a collar.

"Groooo!" Groot exclaimed happily, his voice high and squeaky compared to the deep timbre it had been before the accident.

"That good, huh?" Peter asks with a smile, crouching down to pour half of the pitcher into Groot's pot. He runs his fingers over the little tree creature's head and limbs, checking for any dry spots. Finding none, he smiles and sets the rest of the pitcher on the table. "You're starting to get pretty big, Groot. We might have to get you a bigger pot the next time we stop for supplies."

"Groooo," the tiny Guardian agrees, moving his arms and showing off his most recent growth spurt proudly. It won't be very long before he's big enough and strong enough to get out of the pot and start walking around on his own again.

Peter smiles and sets the Walkman on the table, turning up the volume so the music can be heard through the headphones. "I remember reading somewhere that plants grow better with music," he says more to himself than to said plant on the table. "Wanna see if that works?"

"Groooo," Groot chirps happily in agreement and he watches as Peter presses play on the Walkman sitting in front of him. The song that comes through the headphones is familiar, Groot remembers hearing Peter hum it several times around the ship. It's different when it's coming through wires and speakers though and Groot has to strain a little to hear it. Sensing this, Peter begins singing along to the song softly, the words deeply ingrained in his memory.

"When I die and they lay me to rest, gonna go to the place that's the best," he sings along and Groot sways a little to the song. "When I lay me down to die, goin' up to the spirit in the sky."

The more Peter sings, the more Groot dances and moves to show he enjoys the song. They're not big movements since he's still stuck in the pot but they're big enough to get the message across.

Peter smiles and chuckles quietly at the display. He'd come to visit Groot several times but he'd never brought the Walkman with him; he'd just forgotten he was wearing it earlier when he came in. Usually when he comes to check on him, he'll talk to him and tell him about their newest assignment or where they're going next or what Rocket is currently building on the upper deck. He's never sung to him before though but now that he knows Groot enjoys the music, he'll start bringing it with him more often. "Wow, you're quite the dancer, Groot. When you get out of that pot maybe I'll teach you a few of my moves, huh?"

"Groooo!" Groot agrees with an enthusiastic wave of his little arms. He sways some more and moves around as Peter continues to sing, the music filling the room all around them. Peter stays with him for nearly an hour, letting the music play and singing along to each song that comes on, Groot dancing happily with each one. When Rocket comes in to check on the wiring in the lights, Peter excuses himself but holds up the Walkman as indication that he'll bring it back the next time he comes back down.

It becomes something of their little secret after that. Everyday Peter will go down to the sun room and spend time with Groot, playing the tape and singing along to each song. Rocket thinks it's stupid (although Peter has caught him listening to the Walkman on a few occasions) and Drax doesn't understand it (but then again there are still a lot of things Drax doesn't understand) and Gamora just lets it happen with a shrug like she doesn't really get it either but there's no harm in it so who cares. Groot is growing bigger and Peter has someone to share his music with so that's all that matters.

They find themselves docked on Xandar after a particularly long mission, desperately in need of supplies and repairs for the Milano. Rocket is good but he can only do so much and even he has to admit that the ship needs more extensive repairs than what he can provide. So they're grounded for the better part of two days while the ship gets repaired and their supplies are gathered.

It's later in the afternoon when Peter finds himself with nothing to do and some spare time for the first time that day. Rocket is off somewhere hoping to score some quick units and he really has no idea where Drax and Gamora are but he's not all that worried. They can handle themselves for a little while and it might be good for everyone to have some time to themselves before they're all crammed back on the Milano again. The one Guardian who remains unaccounted for is Groot and Peter is about to change that.

He finds the half grown tree creature still in his pot in the sun room. He beams brightly when Peter walks in, waving excitedly. "Groooo!"

"Hey pal," Peter greets with a grin. "How'd you like to have some real sunlight for a change?" Groot nods excitedly and waves his arms a little when Peter picks up his pot. "Okay, Jolly Green, but you can't tell Rocket about this, deal? He'll kick my ass if he finds out I took you off the ship."

"Groooo," Groot says with a solemn nod, their secret officially safe.

Peter just smiles and tucks the pot under his arm. "Alright, Treebeard, hang on tight."

He finds a sunny park just on the other side of the Nova Corps headquarters. There are children playing, people walking, the whole area just feels peaceful. Peter locates a quiet, sunny patch near a tall purplish tree and drops down onto the grass, setting Groot's pot down gently beside him. It's warm and pleasant, a gentle breeze drifting through the trees, and it reminds him of the summers back on earth.

"What d'ya think, Groot?" Peter asks, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Nothing beats the real thing, huh?"

Groot grins and stretches in response, wiggling his tiny arms like he's testing out his strength to see if he notices a difference. Peter smiles and pulls the pot closer, resting it in his lap to prevent any curious passersby from getting too close to the tiny potted Guardian. He keeps one arm wrapped around Groot's pot and loops a small cable around the base of the pot that he connects to his belt just in case. Rocket really would kill him if he let anything happen to Groot and it was best not to take chances. Satisfied that no one is going to snatch Groot away when he's not looking, Peter leans back so his shoulders are pressed against the trunk of the tree.

He shifts a bit so he's in a more comfortable position before finally pulling the Walkman out of his pocket and setting it on the ground beside them, putting the headphones closer to Groot so he can hear the music. He presses play and leans back, feeling the sunlight on his face.

The song is already halfway through but neither of them seem to care. Peter starts singing quietly and Groot sways a little to the music and the sun shines bright and warm overhead.

"Yes I like pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain," Peter sings softly and he watches Groot stretch and yawn in the warmth of the sun. "I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne."

The song plays on and Peter hums along softly, feeling drowsy and heavy leaning against the tree in the middle of the sunny park. Groot seems to share this sentiment and yawns widely, enjoying the warm, cozy feeling of natural sunlight rather than the lights set up on the ship. It's not long before his little eyes begin to slip closed and he bundles himself up a little tighter in his pot, settling in to take a nap in the sun.

Peter watches him for a few minutes more, still humming along quietly. His own eyes are beginning to droop a little and he wraps his arm tighter around the pot and Groot. He keeps both cradled protectively against his chest and tilts his head back against the tree. The sun is still bright and warm and the tree is providing just enough shade to be comfortable and Peter gives up trying to stay awake. He keeps his arms around Groot and closes his eyes.

OOOOO

Peter has been missing for six days. At least he's pretty sure it's been six days...he doesn't know how to tell time in the dark, cramped cell he's shackled in so he's guessing to the best of his ability. He knows it's been at least four days, nearly certain it's been at least five, and pretty sure today is the sixth day. Then again, he has been slipping in and out of consciousness more often recently so there really is no way to be sure. Ugh, stupid concussions...stupid unconsciousness...stupid…

He groans and curls onto one side, fingers tangling in his hair. His head is pounding in time with his heartbeat and each throb feels like a hot piece of metal is being driven into the space behind his eyes. His fingers get caught in a matted clump of dried blood and hair at the base of his skull, a friendly parting gift from his captors. The lump is tender and swollen and even the slightest touch makes him want to gag and he vaguely wonders if he should be concerned by the fact that he can't exactly remember when said wound was inflicted. Sometime between day five and (maybe) six he's relatively sure but then again the blood is dry and crusted so it couldn't have been too recently.

The throbbing manages to fade into a dull yet persistent ache and he lets out a long, slow breath. It's so dark in the cell that he honestly can't be sure if his eyes are open or not. It wouldn't matter either way; he can't see anything in here anyway and even if he could he's pretty sure he wouldn't want to. Judging by the smell alone, this was not a place for prisoners to live, it was a place for prisoners to die. The room smells like a sickening combination of blood, urine, and rotting meat. The floor is covered in loose sand (all the better to absorb the blood with, his brain informs him uselessly and seriously, shut up, you asshole, you're not helping...) and the walls are high and made of stone. A typical prison cell if it weren't for the fact that Peter is damn near certain no prisoner makes it out of here alive.

The shackle around his ankle is cutting into the skin and he's long since lost the feeling in his foot, an occasional twinge or painful stab of needle-sharp pinpricks letting him know the circulation hasn't been cut off entirely but it was close. He knows a few of his ribs are broken, fractured at the very least, and he's pretty sure one shoulder has been dislocated at least twice now. His jaws are sore from the repeated blows earlier and he can still taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth from the split lip he undoubtedly has. Judging by the sting of swelling, he has at least one black eye, more than likely two, and he's not too sure his nose isn't broken. Yeah, the guys who captured him sure worked him over trying to get information out of him. Peter knows it's only a matter of time before they get frustrated and decide to kill him and be done with it.

He doesn't remember much from the night he was captured but he knows the people who took him knew about the Infinity Stone. One of them recognized him in the crowd and Peter was stupid enough to find himself alone for just enough time for them to make their move. He saw the first two coming but didn't see the other three approaching from behind and it was a quick, bloody confrontation that ended with him being beaten unconscious and shanghaied away with a misfit group of homicidal space pirates.

Their leader, a big, ugly man with scars all over his face, wanted to know the location of the Infinity Stone and told Peter it would be in his best interest to tell him where it was. This was right after he dislocated Peter's shoulder the first time and punched him in the gut hard enough for Peter to choke and gasp for air for a good five minutes after.

Peter had told him the truth, he didn't know. They already knew the Stone was located in the Nova Corps headquarters but they wanted its exact location. And Peter really didn't have an answer for them. After they returned the Stone to Nova Prime, that was it, game over, thanks for playing, here's your shiny tokens. He had no idea what had been done with the Stone after it was given back and he hadn't bothered to find out. Almost being obliterated by said Stone made it skyrocket to the top of Peter's Don't Ever Touch Or Be In The Near Vicinity Of Again list.

This, apparently, was not what the pirate captain wanted to hear and he was more than happy to beat some kind of viable answer out of Peter even if it killed him. Which, as it stood right now, was not very far away from happening.

The pointed tips of Peter's ribs grind together when he moves and he has to suppress another low groan that rumbles in his chest. Breathing hurts, moving hurts, everything hurts and it sucks. The room is spinning even though Peter can't really see anything and he manages to roll just enough onto his back so he's taking some of the pressure off his ribs. His previously dislocated shoulder flares in pain but it's nothing compared to the sawing agony in his ribs and the throbbing ache in his head.

He forces himself to blink just so he knows his eyes are open. He's staring up at the ceiling (he thinks it's the ceiling, it's in the direction of the ceiling) and blinks again. He can't see anything, not even a glimmer of light. He briefly wonders if he's gone blind but then decides he doesn't really care and he'll be dead soon enough anyway so why does it matter? It's ironic in a way: he always kind of knew he would die alone but he never thought it would be so...lonely.

His head is swimming again and he can feel the tumbling pull of unconsciousness tugging at him. There's a low, tremulous rumble somewhere close by but far away and it sounds like thunder. Uh oh, Peter thinks dizzily, still staring up into the nothingness above. Are his eyes even open anymore? He really doesn't know. Tut, tut, it looks like rain.

Another rumble, closer this time and powerfull enough to ripple the sand floor beneath him. More rumbles and more thunder, quite a storm a'brewing up there. Rain will be coming down soon, big droplets the size of quarters that will flood this filthy prison and everything in it. Including Peter. He doesn't care; being washed away can't be so bad. It might actually be nice…

"Rain, rain, go away," Peter mumbles drunkenly, or at least he thinks he does because the voice that comes out of his mouth is rough and raw and wrong and it's not his but it is and he's confused. Wait, why is he telling the rain to go away? We liked the rain a few minutes ago...what the hell?

The thunder is right outside the cell now, loud and jarring and powerful, surrounding him on all sides. The walls around him shake and quiver from the force and he feels something fall on his face. Odd, rain feels a lot like concrete dust…

There's one last resounding crash and the walls tumble in around him. Peter has the mildly hysterical thought that maybe the wall was just struck by lightning and he should be a little more impressed by the experience. He's not, it was rather boring actually. Getting struck by lightning should have been a bit more shocking. Hah...he would laugh but he thinks he might vomit instead.

The rubbled remains of the walls shift a little behind him and there's something like a voice echoing from far away. Sound is distorted and warped and the rumbling of thunder has ceased momentarily. Pity, Peter was kind of looking forward to the rain.

"Quill!" the something like a voice calls and suddenly it's right beside him. "Hey, Quill! Can you hear me?!"

Small hands are touching his face, his head, his arms and they're moving quickly like they're trying to determine a large amount of damage in a short amount of time. Tiny hands, tiny fingers...paws. Those are paws on his face. He only knows one person/thing/creature who has paws.

"Rocket?" he mumbles or at least he tries to because in his brain he says 'Rocket' but what comes out is more along the lines of, "Rrrrkt?"

"Yeah, Quill, it's me," the bandit answers back absently and his paws are still poking and prodding and touching everything and it all just hurts. "Don't try to move yet, pal, you're not lookin' too hot."

Peter tries to think of some response to that but his head is still throbbing and his brain is useless right now so he just gives up and lets Rocket poke him. There's another rumble behind them and Rocket's paws stop their examination briefly.

"Hey guys, he's in here! I found 'im!" he calls loudly over one shoulder and then the tiny hands are back and peeling his eyes open. "Come on, Quill. I need you to stay awake for me here. You got that? We're gettin' you outta here."

Peter is a little confused; he's not exactly sure if any of this is real or not. He remembers vivid fever dreams of his team busting in to save him, guns blazing and heads rolling. He's had dreams of somehow finding a way out of this cell, tunneling maybe or even a broken lock, and getting all the way outside before any of the pirates realize he's gone. He's had dreams where the leader just gets bored with him and lets him go, kicking him out the door and slamming it closed behind him.

But each dream always ends the same: he always ways up in the dark, chained to the wall and all alone. Peter doesn't know if he can take another dream like that and he's pretty sure that if this is another one of those cruel, twisted nightmares, it will probably be his last.

He manages to crack one eye open slightly, the dim light coming from outside the cell still harsh enough to cause his eye to burn and tear. He blinks several times, forcing himself to focus on the furry face hovering above his. He can make out the details of Rocket's fur, the dark rings around his eyes and the sharp point of his teeth peeking out beneath his lips. The details are impeccable and spot on down to the last hair and God, he wants it to be real.

"You found me?" he asks finally, his voice still a jumbled mess of clumsy words and barely pieced together sentence fragments.

Rocket sneers at him them, baring his teeth in a mixture of irritation and anxiety. "Course we found you, ya idiot! We've spent the better part of a week tearin' the entire universe apart tryin' to find you!" He growls darkly, eyes narrowing in challenge. "If you thought a bunch of crappy space pirates were gonna take you away from us and get away with it, you got another thing comin' pal."

One paw is hovering over Peter's shoulder and Rocket squeezes it just a little almost to reassure himself that the human is really there. "Now shut up before one of those broken ribs punctures a lung. I can hear you wheezin' from here."

Peter does as he's told and allows his head to drop back against the sandy floor. He's still not sure if any of this is real but he decides he really doesn't care anymore. He's tired and everything hurts and sleep sounds like the best thing he's ever thought of in his life. His eyes are starting to close and he thinks he can hear Gamora's voice down the hall but he can't be sure anymore. Everything is kind of hazy and wobbly like like oil sitting on top of water and it's making him dizzy.

He closes his eyes and fades away and he knows someone is saying his name but he doesn't know who and he couldn't answer even if he wanted to.

He dreams of his mother. It's odd because he hasn't done that in a long time. He dreams of her and she's smiling and healthy and bright, nothing like the pale, weak shade of his mother he remembers from the hospital. Her eyes are warm, her smile affectionate, and she's stroking his hair gently with her fingers. He thinks he might be dead.

He opens his mouth to say something but no words come out. There are so many things he wants to say, things he never got a chance to before she died, and for some reason the words are just not coming out.

She smiles and shushes him quietly despite the fact that he's not saying anything, her fingers passing through his hair in a slow, gentle sweep. He remembers her doing this when he was a child, soothing him quietly after he had a nightmare. In his current dream he doesn't know how old he is; he likes to think he's still the same age but, then again, age is irrelevant in dreamscapes and he knows he could just as easily be three years old again.

She must notice the confusion on his face because she laughs quietly and leans forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead. She's warm and tender and bright as the sun and for a tragically short time in his life, she was his whole world. Peter doesn't know if he wants to laugh with her or cry.

She leans back, fingers brushing over the curve of one eyebrow lightly. "It's okay," she says quietly and for some reason he can hear her voice but he can't hear his own. "You're safe now. Everything is okay."

He frowns because he doesn't exactly remember being unsafe but if his mother says he's safe now then he guesses he believes her. After all, he's home now and that's all that matters.

"Peter," she says quietly, hand cupping his face gently. "It's okay."

He frowns again. He knows it's okay, she told him it was. She'd never lied to him before and he knows she's not lying now. It's okay, she said so.

"It's okay," she says again but it's not his mother's voice this time. The voice is feminine and familiar but it's not his mother's. Still, he knows that voice too…

"Peter…"

He opens his eyes again and this time his mother is nowhere to be seen. She's gone, fading away like a shadow in the morning light. He wakes up and realizes it was all a dream. He wants to be disappointed but he's so tired he can't even process that emotion.

"Peter," the voice says again and it's most definitely not his mother but it's welcome all the same. He turns his head to the side just enough for his eyes to land on green skin and a soft smile.

"Hey," Gamora says, reaching out and brushing her fingertips over his cheekbone lightly. "It's okay. You're safe now. I promise."

He blinks in confusion, his mind still trying to separate dream from reality. Memories come back slowly, snippets and fragments and pain. Everything still hurts, stiff joints and bruised muscles and cracked and broken bones. He tries to move and grimaces, teeth clenching tightly.

"Rest, my friend," a deep voice rumbles from behind him and suddenly there's a large, heavy hand splayed across his chest, holding him still but remaining remarkably gentle at the same time. He suddenly comes to the realization that he's not exactly laying down so much as he's propped against something. Or someone. A large, warm, solid someone.

"You were injured during your captivity," the voice rumbles again and Peter's brain finally catches up enough to realize it's Drax he's leaning against. "Your wounds are healing but you must rest and lay still or you may harm yourself further."

Peter slumps back against the warrior's chest and lets out a low groan. "What-" he starts and his voice still sounds rough and raw when he speaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "What are you all doing here?"

"We were tryin' to get some sleep, ya big dummy," a new voice snaps and Peter looks down to see Rocket sprawl across his legs with Groot sitting next to him. The little tree creature has gotten much stronger since Peter last saw him and he's now out of the pot and walking on his own. He's still too small to do any heavy lifting yet so he's contented himself to following Rocket around with every step. He's looking at Peter with concerned, dark eyes.

"We all decided to bunk down here with you 'cause every time you wake up, you come awake swingin' and if you mess up my handiwork and tear those wounds open again I'm gonna tie you up and toss you in the engine room. Got it?" Rocket mutters and despite all his gruff snarkiness, Peter doesn't miss the fact that he's watching him carefully for any signs of pain or discomfort. He also doesn't miss the fact that Rocket is holding on to his pants leg with one paw like he's trying to keep him from moving as well. It's not much but it's Rocket's way of showing he cares and he's worried and if anyone has anything to say about it they can just suck it.

"You respond well to touch," Gamora tells him and she curls up against his side, pressing close but staying mindful of his injuries. "You've been resting much better since we all laid down with you."

"I assure you, my friend," Drax says from behind him and his hand doesn't move itself from Peter's chest but the pressure does lighten slightly. "Your captors suffered slow and painful deaths for the harm they caused you. We were very thorough in dispatching them."

"Very thorough," Gamora agrees and one small green hand rests against his chest just below Drax's. Peter makes yet another mental note to never, ever fuck with Drax or Gamora; they sounded almost smug about the admission of the death and dismemberment of his former captors.

"Kinda poetic, really," Rocket chimes in and there's a slight pressure difference along his legs as both Rocket and Groot hunker down to make themselves more comfortable. They maintain some form of contact at all times, Rocket spread across his thighs and Groot leaning against one hip. "You ever heard the phrase 'paintin' the walls with blood', Quill?"

Gamora reaches down and pokes him in the ear, a quiet indication to leave it there for now. Rocket seems to understand and just nods in defeat. "Yeah, yeah. Rest now, talk of dismemberment later. I know."

Gamora turns back to look at Peter, reaching up to cup his cheek once more. "Go to sleep, Peter. You're safe. Everything is okay."

Peter really can't argue because his brain has quite rapidly decided that consciousness is overrated and it's ready to check out for the time being. He feels Drax tighten his hold minutely, Gamora's body pressed flush against his own. Rocket's fur is rasping quietly against his pants leg and Groot's wooden little body is solid and firm against his hip. Who would have guessed that being surrounded by two thugs, a maniac, and a master assassin, Peter would have felt more safe than he ever had in his life?

There's a very soft floral scent and Peter looks down to see tiny golden flowers appearing in the cracks of Groot's arms. The flower's scent is warm and soothing, like vanilla and sugar and soft cotton. The petals shimmer briefly and then miniature fairy lights appear from within, drifting upward into the air.

The second display isn't nearly as big as it was the first time but tiny, twinkling fireflies appear above their heads, glimmering like millions of stars. Peter wants to stay awake and watch them because they're beautiful but his eyes refuse to obey his command and start to slip closed before he realizes it. He supposes he can't be too upset about it in the end; the world now consists of flowers and forests and fireflies and it all just feels right.

Peter feels sleep pull at him and allows himself to be led away by it, knowing his teammates aren't far behind. After all, he's home now and that's all that matters.

Thanks for reading guys! :D