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[13:06- Mon- SY: XXX]

[On-board the Milano]

[3 weeks after the Guardians of the Galaxy saved the universe.]

Throb.

"Then don't fucking touch my stuff, you brainless smurf!" Rocket.

Throb.

"Don't ever call me 'smurf'." Drax.

Throb.

"You don't even know what that is!" Rocket.

Throb.

"Neither do you, Rocket." Gamora.

Throb-pulse.

"Oh, I know what it is-" a hiss, "-peanut-brain over here exemplifies every bit of it." Rocket.

Throb, wince.

For the past 53 hours, Peter Jason Quill had been suffering an on and off headache; one that was no more pleased than the rest of the crew about the incessant arguing. On occasion his suffering escalated into migraine territory, making even his precious music too painful to listen to. It had been waking him up at night, stealing his appetite, and wearing his patience very thin and he was pretty sure that something was about to snap.

Throb.

He wasn't an expert with animals- or animal hybrid things- but he was beginning to wonder if maybe Rocket was capable of having a monthly- or weekly- period. He continued to find things to argue about, whether it was that someone/thing had laid a hand on "his" designs, eaten "his" leftovers, or stolen "his" turn to use the showers he was always fussing over something.

Oh, and god forbid if anyone other than Rocket even tried to touch Groot's pot.

Throb.

It certainly didn't help matters when Drax blundered obliviously around the ship, stepping on important gizmos and whoozits and making Peter wince every time. His diet was ravenous, eating through anything he could get his hands on and sometimes making the Starlord wonder if he was possibly capable of eating parts of his ship. Worse yet, the bulky male didn't seem to understand the length of his own strength as he constantly destroyed things around the Milano.

Throb.

And then there was Gamora. Sweet, wonderful, beautiful, heartless-murderous-assassin Gamora always seemed to get dragged into the fight somehow. More often than not, her attempts to be the peacekeeper backfired and she was drawn into the argument. Every time, not long after she joined the fray, all the weapons would come out, the shouting would escalate, and Peter would turn his attention off of piloting to find the three of them trying to bloody kill each other.

Throb.

Fingers moving skillfully Peter typed in a set of commands, putting the Milano on autopilot. Gritting his teeth the blond leaned back and brought both hands up to gently massage his temples with the index and middle finger of each hand.

Several imposing footsteps neared, a low voice soon followed; "I do not have a peanut for a head."

A deep sigh blew out of his nose and Groot looked up at him from the console his pot had been set on. He had been growing rather rapidly but still needed the security and nutrients he got from his pot. They'd all been steadily waiting for anything to come out of the little sapling's mouth but nothing outside of "ah" and "eh" had escaped him.

"Rocket-" Gamora began warningly.

"No, he's right. He's just a simple-minded fool who's more of a blunder than a baby Mangando!"

THROB.

With a catastrophically loud bang Peter slammed both hands onto the console in front of him, narrowly missing Groot's pot, and stood so abruptly he almost fell over- if it weren't for the console he was leaning into he probably would have. His comrades went momentarily silent but by the time he'd turned around Rocket's mouth was already starting to open. The self-declared Starlord stormed right through a bout of dizziness with hardly anything more than a wobble, yanked the irritating rodent up by the scruff of his neck and snarled in the wake of his protests.

"Oi- hey- what the hell are you doing, asshole?!" the angry raccoon-hybrid-thing spat.

"Locking you in storage," Peter replied darkly, moving past the others with an irritably muttered 'I'll throw you two in there too if you don't shut the fuck up already'. As Rocket threw a fit and growled, clawing aggressively at the flesh of Peter's arm, the blond captain pulled up a round metal hatch on the floor and dropped into it, sliding down the ladder as though it was second nature to do so one-handed. He continued on down the adjoining hall with the raccoon attempting to twist around and bite his hand- having no success of course. Obscenities flew from his tongue in every language known to the stars and if Peter had had the energy he might have been impressed.

As things stood, however, he was very, very far from that.

Reaching his destination the blond typed in the lock-code and let the door slide open with a languid hiss. No sooner than it had done its job did he toss the spiteful rodent and manually slide the otherwise slow contraption shut, leaving a cussing, howling, writing little beast on the other side.

It took hardly a moment for him to re-lock the door and pivot on his heel, heading back the way he'd come. Once again hit by a wave of dizziness- this one much more severe- Peter struck a hand against the wall to steady himself, swallowing a miserable moan as the sound cracked through his skull.

"Peter?" Gamora's voice was a just a tiny bit hesitant, echoing down the corridor.

"Hmm?" He grumbled, Rocket's fists banging against the storage containment door behind him. The human-hybrid pushed off the wall and carried himself along the catwalk towards the ladder, not even bothering to look up at his comrade as he climbed. Shortly after he had hauled himself out of the hole and back onto the main deck Gamora was by his side, a questioning look plastered over her face.

His failing condition must have been really obvious because a moment after her confusion turned to concern, Drax piped up; "Peter Quill, what ails you?"

The Terran's shoulders sunk in a heavy sigh as he melted back into the chair nearest the control console. He brought a hand to his head, wiping it across his rugged features as though he could brush his furious headache away.

"Nothing," he muttered, massaging his temples, "I've just got a seriously fucked up headache."

"Head," Drax began hesitantly, trying to make sense of the foreign term, "ache?"

Because his head was down, Peter never saw the blinking monitor in front of him display the words 'medical assessment activating'. From above a small piece of paneling swished to the side, revealing a scanner. Blue light swept over him, garnering his attention and- despite the pain it brought him- he uncovered his eyes and looked up. He grimaced as he realized what Drax had accidentally done, sinking even lower into his chair as he waited for the inevitable.

"Peter, what is this?" he heard Gamora inquire. He didn't need to respond, however, as his ship beat him to it.

"Medical assessment complete," it informed the crew, "Diagnosis for: Peter Quill. Age: 26. Species: Terran-Spartax hybrid. Sex: Male." Peter could feel Gamora slowly drift closer to him, as though the move was subconscious and he kicked his feet up on the console in front of him. "Diagnosis: Class 7.8 cephalagia . Description: Sharp pain in the region of the head, scalp, or neck. May be a symptom of a more serious disease that requires p-professional medical assistance," Peter rolled his eyes and regretted it not long after. "Symptoms include," the computer continued, "vision changes, sensitivity to sound or light, and nausea." With a muttered curse the leader of the recently formed Guardians of the Galaxy picked up the controls and unlocked the autopilot. "Causes of a class 7.8 cephalagia may be due to: stress, head trauma, severe lack of oxygen- d-d-d-d." At the sudden glitch in the system, Peter stopped for a moment and turned his gaze upwards, looking for sparks or some such sign of damage. He hadn't noticed the increasing concern his comrades were emitting behind him. Not until Gamora put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from picking the controls back up.

"What the-" he began, glancing at the assassin when her grip tightened. She was looking intensely into Peter's eyes, unblinkingly staring at him as though to make a diagnosis of her own.

"-When untreated, class 7.8 cephalagias often lead to comas, morphalite syndrome, and death."

The next thing Peter Quill knew he was being hauled up out of his chair by a woman who was way stronger than she should have been and practically dragged off as the glitchy AI continued its confused babbling.

Too fast, toofast, toofast!

"Woah-wai-Gam- uuugh," he tried to protest but it was at this precise moment that his cerebellum and frontal lobes collectively decided that this was complete bullshit and it was time to clock out, call it a day and try again tomorrow. He stumbled into something solid as his vision went out faster than a blown light bulb, frantic voices speaking above him barely registering in his throbbing brain. Something was said about a hospital, but that was the last that he knew before his body finally gave out on him.

Well.

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