"We'll need to stop for supplies fairly soon," Gamora was saying, but Peter Quill didn't appear to be paying attention. "I've made a shopping list, along with a list of the best markets on each world for specialty items and-Peter, are you listening to me?"

"Mm-hmm," he moaned, his eyes closed. He wasn't asleep, though; she could tell when he was asleep.

She saw that one arm was wrapped around his midsection. "Is your stomach still bothering you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You should go to the med bay and have the autodoc check you out."

"Mm-mm."

"Why not?"

"Cause it'll pass. It always does. It's just indigestion, Mora, it's not gonna kill me."

"When will it pass? It's been two days."

"Had it for a week once. Thought I was gonna die, but I made it through. It's fine."

"Will you at least go to bed, then?"

This made him open his eyes and stare at her in shock. Then a big grin spread across his face.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Quill! I meant that you should rest, that's all."

"Yeah, later." He closed his eyes again.

She sighed, pushed the button for the autopilot, and hauled him up out of his chair. "Come on," she said, practically dragging him down the corridor.

"Hey, hey! I can walk!"

"I doubt it." She never even slowed down until she reached Peter's private quarters, where she turned down the bed and helped him lie down.

Peter noticed that the sheets felt considerably less crunchy than they usually did. "You change my sheets?"

"They were disgusting."

"No one's changed my bed for me since . . . since my mom. Thanks."

"Don't get used to it. I'm not your maid." But she was smiling as she said it.

"Okay, you can go now. I'll be fine." He settled into soft warmth, feeling suddenly drowsy.

"Are you sure?"

"I told you, I've had this before. Some foods just don't work with my fragile Terran digestion. I thought I knew them all, but I guess I was wrong."

"Half-Terran," she corrected him.

"Whatever. Go 'way. Sleepy." He closed his eyes, and felt her smooth the covers up over him. The last thing he heard was her light footsteps as she left the room.

" . . . think he's dead?"

"I am Groot."

"Green Genes really sounded worried about him. Poke 'im."

"I am Groot?"

"Not hard! Just a little nudge!"

It was at this point that Peter gradually became aware of two things: the ever-present pain in his stomach, and a large furry weight on his legs. He opened one eye and saw Rocket sitting on top of him while Groot, who had grown to almost full size now, leaned over the bed from the side.

"Hey! Get off!" He tried unsuccessfully to push the raccoon-like creature off the bed. "C'mon, guys, I was sleeping."

"Guess he's not dead, then."

"I am Groot."

"Dead? Why would you think I was-nnnnnh!" Peter tried to sit up, and the pain in his stomach got worse. For a moment, he was afraid he might throw up.

"Shit! He's gonna blow!" Rocket jumped off the bed and retreated as far back as he could. Groot just stared at Peter with a puzzled expression.

"No, I'm . . . I'm okay now. I think."

"So, not getting better, then?"

"Not yet."

"This thing you have . . . it's not . . . contagious, is it?"

Peter sighed. "No, it's just something I ate. I swear that's all it is. Sometimes it's pretty bad, but it goes away after a few days. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"Why does that sound like famous last words? Like 'Oh, he won't bite.' Or 'It's okay, I know what I'm doing.' Not exactly inspiring a lot of confidence in me."

"I am Groot."

"Okay, fine, we're goin'. We've done our duty here. He's been checked on. I got more important things to do now anyway." Rocket shuffled out the door. "You comin'?"

Groot paused and looked back. "I am Groot?"

"It's okay," Peter said, lowering himself back onto the bed. "I'm just gonna go back to sleep now."

Groot reached out with a tendril no thicker than a child's pinky and gently stroked Peter's cheek. "I am Groot."

"Thanks, Groot." The half-Terran rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly.

When he woke next, the ship was in darkness. There was no true day or night in space, but during the down times, they turned off as many lights as possible to save energy.

Gradually Peter became aware of another presence in the room. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Twenty-two-thirty," came a deep rumble.

Peter started to sit up, then he remembered how bad an idea that had been last time. "Drax?"

"Are you feeling any better?"

"A little. I think. Wow, it's hot in here."

A massive hand rested gently on his forehead for a moment. "You have a fever."

"Oh. Guess I'm not getting better, then." Peter tried shifting position again, and his body reminded him of the pain. "Nnnnh!"

"Is it a sharp pain?"

"What? Oh, no, not really. Only when I move. Usually it's more like an ache. Just kind of a general uncomfortable feeling. A heaviness, like I swallowed a ton of bricks."

Drax frowned. "Do you regularly consume building materials?"

"What? No!"

"Was that another metaphor, then?"

"Yeah. You're getting better at recognizing them." He tried to say something else, but all that came out was a huge yawn. "Sorry. Don't know why I'm so tired. All I've done for the past day or so is sleep."

"You are ill. Sleep may be the best thing for you. Do you require anything?"

"Jus' sleep. And a time machine. So I can go back to three days ago and pick a different restaurant. What the hell did I eat, anyway? I'm usually so careful about knowing what's in everything. Unless I'm drunk. Was I drunk?"

"Not before we ordered dinner."

"You remember what I had? There was some kinda sauce on it. Coulda been something in the sauce. I always ask, though."

"It was teelbat with ninga sauce."

"Nah, that wouldn't do it. I've had teelbat and ninga before without any problems. Some kinda spice, maybe?"

"I don't know."

"There wasn't any wahudi, was there? Worst reaction I ever had in my life was to wahudi. I was throwing up so much I almost ended up in the hospital. This kinda feels like that. Getting there, anyway."

"Should we bring you to the hospital, then?" There was concern on Drax's face; he really believed Peter's condition was serious, possibly even life-threatening.

"Nnnnh . . . not yet. 'S not that bad yet."

"If this is what you call 'not bad,' I would hate to see what you consider an emergency."

"Yeah, come back when I'm spewing from both ends and can't even walk for the pain," Peter said almost flippantly. "I'm tired. Need sleep."

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"Mm-mm."

"Is that a no?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. No, I don't need anything. Lemme sleep a while longer. Maybe I'll try and eat something in the morning."

"All right, then." Drax left the room, and after a few minutes of waiting for everything to settle down again, Peter fell asleep again.

" . . . still think he should see a doctor."

"Why? He said he's fine! It'll pass!"

"I doubt that. He seems to be getting worse."

"Maybe it gets worse before it gets better."

"I am Groot."

"Whaddya mean, his color's not good? That's what color he's s'posed ta be!"

"He does look rather pale."

A soft hand gently caressed his brow. Peter leaned into the touch, but then his stomach lurched and he sat up suddenly.

"Bowl!"he croaked out, struggling to hold down whatever was threatening to evacuate his system.

A moment later, a metal trash bin was hastily shoved under his chin. He spit up what seemed to be mainly bile and water. When had he eaten last?

What day was it?

"Here." Gamora held a glass of water to his lips. He took a sip, rinsed, and spat into the bin. "We didn't mean to wake you."

"How was I supposed to sleep with you all standing over me arguing about whether or not I'm dying?"

"Peter," she said, "we're your friends. We're only concerned for your well-being. You seem to be growing steadily worse instead of better. I think it's time to go to the hospital."

"No!" he said, a little too forcefully. "I hate hospitals. Have to be dying to even consider setting foot in one. Besides which, we're light-years away from any that have experience treating Terrans. Okay, half-Terrans. Same difference."

"The med bay, then. If it can't figure out what's wrong with you, then we go to the hospital."

"Have fun," he said, and closed his eyes.

The next sensation he felt was of strong arms enfolding him, lifting him out of his bed and carrying him like a baby. How humiliating.

"Put me down, Drax," he said. "I can walk."

"You cannot even stay awake more than a few minutes at a time," the warrior countered. "Let me help you."

"I could shoot him," Rocket offered.

There was a smack. "Ow! Whaaaat? I meant a stunner! He's more cooperative when he's out cold!"

"I am Groot."

"Yeah, you're right, he is going back to sleep already."

No, I'm not, Peter wanted to tell him, but for some reason he couldn't get his mouth to work. It felt like he was floating on the ceiling . . .

And then, he drifts back in time, and he's nine years old again. He's curled up in his bunk, and his stomach hurts so bad, he can't even move. He's supposed to be on duty right now, but he can't get out of bed. He can't even open his eyes.

The door bangs open and he whimpers and burrows down into his covers, but a rough hand yanks them back.

"Damn it, boy, you get outta that bed now and get to work! This ain't a hotel, it's a working ship, and if you want to eat, you need to work!"

The mere mention of eating makes Peter want to barf. He hasn't eaten a thing since the night before last, when dinner had consisted of some strange unidentifiable meat along with a stringy green vegetable that tasted horrible. He ate it anyway, because Yondu told him that if he doesn't eat what's in front of him, he won't get any more.

But all day yesterday he had pains in his stomach, and they just got worse and worse, and now he's lying here in pain and feeling like he's about to puke, and Yondu is all in his face about getting up and doing his duty. As if.

"You hear me, boy?"

Peter opens his mouth to reply, and suddenly his stomach lurches and a flood of vomit comes shooting out of his mouth and splashes all over the bed. He's covered in it, and it smells disgusting.

"Well, shit," Yondu says, but he doesn't sound mad anymore. The next thing Peter knows, he's scooped up out of his sticky, smelly bed, and carried down the hall to the ship's med bay. He opens his eyes along the way, but the sensation of movement makes him feel dizzy, so he closes his eyes again until he is gently but firmly set down on a metal table.

He hears the whine of a scan and holds as still as he possibly can, despite the pain in his stomach and the uncomfortable sensation that he's not done throwing up today. He just hopes that this time, Yondu is out of the line of fire.

"Well? What's wrong with 'im?"

"It appears to be some sort of food intolerance," says the doctor. He's not really a doctor, but he's in charge of the med bay, so they call him Doctor. "I'll need to know everything he's eaten for the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

"He's had the same stuff everyone else had."

"Yes, but with his . . . unique body chemistry . . . some foods which others tolerate don't seem to agree with our poor boy here."

"Is he gonna die?"

"Of course not! If the reaction were life-threatening, we would have known it long before now. He just needs plenty of rest and fluid replacement."

"For how long?"

"I would say two, three days at most. I just want to run a few tests to pin down exactly what it was that caused this reaction, and then he can return to his own room."

"Can't you just give him a pill or somethin' that'll fix it now?"

"It's not that simple. By now his entire system has been affected."

"Waste of damn time," Yondu snarls, and Peter, being young as he is, jumps to the wrong conclusion and thinks that the captain's saying that he's a waste of time. Hot tears squeeze themselves from the corners of his eyes.

" . . . not . . . a waste . . ."

"Hush, Peter, hold still for a moment," said a woman's voice, and it took Peter a moment to remember where he was. He wasn't nine years old, he was thirty-four, and this was his ship and his crew and . . .

He slowly opened his eyes. "Weird dream. If it was a dream. What's going on?"

Gamora was staring up at the computer screen attached to the diagnostic bed. "We've run the scan five times," she told him. "Every time, it comes up the same: Inconclusive."

"In other words," said Rocket, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, "that thing doesn't know any more than the rest of us."

"Wahudi," Peter breathed softly.

Gamora stared at him. "What?"

"The last time I was sick like this, it was caused by wahudi. My body can't process it, I guess. Did you test for it?"

"How are we supposed to do that?"

"I don't know! I don't remember! I was a little kid at the time, and I was sick and miserable and I just wanted it to stop! I wasn't taking notes! Nnnnnhhhhhhh!" he groaned, as his body protested. The pain in his midsection was approaching nuclear, and he didn't want his friends splattered by the fallout.

"That's it," said Gamora. "Turn the ship around. We're taking him to Xandar. They know how to treat him there."

"My ship," Peter said weakly.

"And you're clearly unfit for duty. I'm making an executive decision. If we let this go much longer . . ."She deliberately left the sentence unfinished, as if merely speaking the words could make it happen.

"You guys heard her," Peter ordered the rest of his crew. "We're going to Xandar. Break galactic speed limits, if you have to."

"All right!" Rocket exclaimed. "Time for some fun at last! I mean," he amended, catching Drax's dark look, "you know, we're on a mission of mercy. Doesn't mean we can't have fun doing it!"

"I should think caution would be more important than fun, at a time like this."

"Yeah, well, that's cause you have no imagination. C'mon, Groot."

But the tree-creature refused to leave Peter's side. He stayed out of Gamora's way as much as he could, but he wouldn't leave the room at all, keeping a silent vigil over his ailing friend.

This was really starting to creep him out. "What is it?"he asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

The assassin paused in checking his vital signs and sighed. "I ran a search," she began, "on causes of abdominal pain in Terrans."

"And?"

"I found an article on something called appendicitis. Were you aware that you possessed a small but useless organ deep within your abdominal cavity, that when inflamed could cause a reaction similar to what you're experiencing?"

He tried to make sense of this. He was sooooooo tired, he just wanted to go back to sleep, but this was important. "I've heard of it. What about it?"

"The article said that it could be . . . fatal."

Oh, so that was what was bothering her. "I'm pretty sure," he said, "that I don't have appendicitis."

"Peter, the symptoms all match."

"It's wahudi, I know it is."

"You can't possibly know that for sure!"

"I'm about seventy percent sure. I've had it before, remember."

"Well, I refuse to take chances. Time is short; the article said that if left untreated, the organ could burst within as little as seventy-two hours. It's been at least that already! We may already be too late!"

It was as close to panic as he had ever seen her, and it was all his fault. If he'd just gone for the scan when she'd told him to . . .

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling himself begin to drift away. "If I don't . . . make it . . . I want you to know . . ."

"What?" she asked, but he was already asleep. She checked his breathing to make sure he was just asleep and not . . . no, she wouldn't even think it. He would make it, he had to!

"I am Groot."

"What?" She looked up, only to see Groot holding out a small white flower to her. "Oh. Thanks, Groot." She tucked the flower behind her ear for now. So what if no one else saw it? She appreciated the gesture.

"I am Groot?" He was looking down at Peter, who twitched and mumbled in his sleep.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," she said, but in reality, she wasn't at all sure. But he had to make it, he just had to! Without him . . . they'd all fall apart.

Peter didn't wake up until the ship landed on Xandar, and the emergency medical personnel who met them at the landing site were loading him onto a gurney for transport.

"Wha . . . where-"

"Ssh," one of the med techs, an attractive purple-skinned woman, said. "You're okay. Everything's going to be all right."

"Wan' go home."

"You will," said the other, a male Xandarian. "We're gonna just check you over to make sure you're okay and then you can go home after that."

"Uh huh," Peter said, and fell back asleep again.

When next he woke, he was in a hospital bed. He looked from the white ceiling to the beeping monitors to the line attached to his arm and felt a sense of panic. He had to get out of here!

"You're not goin' anywhere, boy."

He looked over. Yondu was sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading a magazine with lots of pictures of dead or dying bodies. Kree war manual, then.

"This is another dream," Peter said out loud. "You're not really here."

"You really are an idiot, you know that?"

"Boy, this dream is realistic. You can kill me now. I'll wake up before I die."

"Not gonna kill you, Petey. Now tell me who did this to ya."

"Who did what?"

"You know what. This wasn't no accident. Someone gave you the wahudi on purpose. I wanna know who."

"I don't know."

"Well, where'd ya eat?"

"Some place on Talos. Duck Dollar . . . something like that."

Yondu nodded. "Dalladuc. I know the place. You take care now, son. I'll see ya soon."

Peter closed his eyes and drifted off, thinking what a strange dream he was having. It had to be a dream, didn't it?

When he woke up for real, he was still in the hospital, but his friends were there with him. He'd never been so glad to see them in his life.

"Hey, guys," he said.

"Well, it's about time!" Rocket put down the magazine he'd been reading (which looked like the same one Yondu had been looking at in the dream) and came over. "Feels like we been waiting forever!"

"How long have I been out?" Peter asked.

It was Drax who answered him. "Nearly thirty-six hours from the time you were first brought in."

"And you've been hanging out here all this time?"

"We would never leave you," said Gamora.

"Thanks. I guess I owe you an apology. You were right all along. If I'd just gone for the scan when you told me to instead of insisting that it was nothing, I could have saved us all a lot of trouble. At least I'm still alive."

"Finally awake, are we?" A woman who Peter presumed was a doctor came into the room. "And how are we feeling today?"

"Fine." He felt his stomach, and there was almost no pain at all. There were also no bandages across his midsection. "Did they not have to remove it after all?"

"Remove what?"

"My appendix. That's what the trouble was, wasn't it?"

She smiled. "Mr. Quill, you don't actually have an appendix."

"What?"

"Let me show you." She touched the monitor hanging above the bed, and an image appeared. "This is the preliminary scan we did of your abdominal cavity. This here," she said, tapping a corner of the screen with a stylus, "is where the appendix would be in a normal Terran. However . . ."

"I'm only half-Terran," he finished. "That's really weird. Anything else I'm missing that I should know about?"

"Not as far as we can tell."

"So what was the problem, then?"

"To put it simply: you were poisoned."

"You mean, like, actual poison?" This was something he'd never had to deal with before. Peter had always assumed that when his death came, it would be by violent means. Poison was so . . . devious.

"Your father is well-known throughout the galaxy. He has enemies. It seems they are now your enemies as well. One of them infiltrated the kitchen at the Dalladuc Grill and slipped a vial of lethal toxin into your food. He used grated wahudi to disguise the taste."

"See, I knew it was wahudi," Peter announced triumphantly to his friends.

Gamora gave him a look. "You could have died! Wait, why didn't he die?"

"That's the funny thing. His Terran half managed to slow down his metabolism enough to keep the poison from doing any real damage. We were able to neutralize it and flush it from his system."

"Is that why I was so tired all the time?"

"Yes, exactly. It's like . . ." She struggled for an appropriate analogy. "Like a ship, diverting power from operations to life support. Everything your body had, it put into the effort to keep you alive."

"He is not a ship," said Drax.

"I'll explain it later," said Rocket.

"You're kidding. My weak Terran biology saved my life?" Peter looked around in amazement.

"Whaddya want, a medal?" asked Rocket.

"I am Groot?" Groot was leaning over the bed, studying the monitors.

"He wants to know when we can take Mr. Wonderful here home," the raccoon translated.

"Oh," the doctor said. "Well, we'll want to keep him at least one more night strictly for observation, but the danger has passed. We'll just let him rest for the time being."

"You guys don't have to stay here," Peter told them. "Go get something to eat. Or whatever. I'll be fine."

"There has already been one attempt on your life," said Gamora. "We are not leaving you unguarded."

"Our security is the best on the planet," the doctor pointed out.

"Yeah, no offense or nothin'," said Rocket, "but I've heard that from guys who very quickly wound up dead. No, thanks. One of us'll stay with him at all times. Armed."

"Oh, no, you didn't bring-" Peter had the sudden image of his friends prowling the hospital corridors, brandishing heavy artillery.

"Small arms," the raccoon said with a grin. "We're not completely stupid. So who gets first watch?"

"I don't know if this is the best idea . . ." The doctor was backing away from them slowly, as if sudden movements would cause them to explode.

"Relax! We won't go lookin' for trouble, but if it shows up here . . . we'll deal with it."

"Rocket," Gamora said in a warning tone.

"All right, all right! We'll use stun weapons and call Security right after! Happy now? Thanks for taking care of our boy, by the way. We do appreciate it. C'mon, Groot."

"I am Groot." Groot sat in the chair, planting (not literally) his roots firmly on the floor.

Rocket just shrugged. "Guess that settles who's takin' first watch. Hope that's okay with you, Pete."

"Yeah, it's fine." Sure, they wouldn't be able to have a conversation, but Peter wasn't in the mood for talking, anyway. He was still really tired. His internal batteries (he was sticking with the ship analogy) were at less than thirty percent, but that was all right. He'd saved the universe with twelve percent of a plan. Any number greater than zero was good.

"I am Groot." A twig caressed his forehead.

"Thanks, Groot," Peter mumbled, as he drifted off to the creaking of wood and the sweet smell of flowers.

The next time he opened his eyes, Groot was gone.

But Rhomann Dey was there.

"Star-Lord," he said. "We have to talk."

"Oh, hey," Peter said, struggling to sit up. At least it wasn't killing his insides to do so now. "What's up?" A torrent of possibilities, none of them good, flooded his brain. "Oh, no, what've they done now?"

"Who?"

"My team. They didn't shoot anybody, did they?"

"No, nothing like that. They're down in the lobby. I came to tell you that we uncovered the identity of the assassin."

"Yeah?"

"We sent a team to the Dalladuc Grill on Rhyssa, but by the time we got there, the suspect was already dead." Dey consulted something on a pad, then looked back at Peter solemnly. "Cause of death appeared to be multiple penetrations with a projectile weapon."

"What?" It had only been a dream, hadn't it? He couldn't possibly have . . . "You don't think my team-"

"No, the staff confirmed they've been here since you were brought in. You don't know anything about it, do you?"

Peter suddenly wished he could see that pad. He had a feeling he knew exactly the "projectile weapon" that had made those wounds.

You know, he thought. And I know you know. And you know that I know you know . . . but if you know anything about me at all, you know that I'd die before I'd betray the only father I've ever had. Sure, I'll steal from him, and double-cross him, but turn him in to the Corps? Never.

"No," he said. "I don't."

Dey looked into his eyes for a moment, and then nodded. "That's what I thought. How're you feeling, by the way?"

"Much better, thanks for asking."

"Must be hard having a target on your back now."

"Oh, I'm not worried," Peter said, lying back and smiling. "I trust my team to watch my back, target or not. They'd rather die than fail me."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Take care, now. I hear they're springing you from this place tomorrow."

"Hopefully. I hate hospitals."

"Yeah, I'm not too crazy about them myself. I'll go tell your friends they can come in now." He paused in the doorway and turned back. "If you did have any idea who might have tracked down and slain the assassin, you'd tell us, wouldn't you?"

"I would," he said. "But I don't know who it was. Not at all."

He owed Yondu that much. The man had promised to take care of him, and he always kept his promises.

Dey consulted something on his pad, checking it off with a magnetic stylus. "Hmm. Okay, then. Get well soon."

"Thanks."

A moment later, his teammates filed in, and Peter realized how lucky he was to have such good people around him. He owed them so much.

I promised to look out for them, he thought. Didn't realize that meant they'd look after me, too. But I'm glad. If I've got assassins after me, I'm gonna need all the help I can get.