Soothing, sweet, fluttering feeling flows in Peter as he watches Groot trifle before him with a smile. He sits on his bed cross-legged, covers forgotten and the stars observing their fun from outside the ship. He holds his hand up, palm down and watches small floral colossus swing around his fingers, tiny squeals of joy coming from his mouth. It endears him so much that Peter chuckles in glee, wiggling his fingers a bit to trip Groot's tricky path, but the little rascal stays put. Real fighter. He knows it was long past the twig's bed time and if Rocket saw them he was probably going to kick Peter's ass, including his own in the process, and Groot wouldn't be sleeping with him anymore.

Bullcrap if he cared. Groot could stay up as long as he wanted.

Groot's little fingers were careful as they maneuvered their way around Peter's own. Peter was aware they could break them in thousand pieces if Groot wished them to be, just like a dog's owner shoves his hand in the animal's mouth, knowing what those teeth can do, but having all trust in his furry friend to not do so. There was no saying this situation is completely the same.

Suddenly, Groot lost balance and with a tiny whoop, slipped off, but Peter's other palm was ready, and reflexes put, like a bullet ready to leave the barrel. He caught the tiny creature with the other hand, and Groot looked up at him, smiling openly, and Peter had no choice but mirror that expression. Two happy souls in one place, with no other to poke them with gibberish about sentimentality. Peter was prepared to die right here and there if that meant it was all said and done, and this precious moment would be a conclusion of his roguish life.

Then something changed.

The air grew heavy; a heavy lead net hung off the ceiling, that threatened to suffocate the room, and Peter found himself airless. But Groot seemed not to notice. He did stir in confusion when Peter's hands started to move.

But Peter wasn't moving them.

Horrified and suffocating on nothing, he watched his hands grip Groot between themselves, as the little thing started to convulse and twist, emitting puzzled three words that gripped his vocabulary. Peter stops breathing as he felt pressure that started to apply on a small helpless body while Groot's eyes widened. His face twisted in pain as he pried at Peter's fingers, trying to loosen them, but to no avail. His little hands, however mighty, were helpless this time. Peter wanted to scream, but lunacy that had taken him over prevented any move at all, so he was practically helpless. He didn't want to look, he really didn't.

Groot was shrieking animalistic noises now, floundering in Peter's firmer and firmer grip as he was bent downwards. A single tear abandoned his dark eyes and it set Peter off.

Please, please stop! Whoever you are who's doing it, please stop!

But beneath all that, he realized he was cold as ice. Eyes giving no emotion, staring wide-eyed at a helpless squirming thing, not losing a single tear. Teeth gritted in effort to bend the twig before him, like little kid plucks the fly's wings and then pokes it with a needle to see it twist and wiggle its legs in pain.

Peter wanted to cry, to cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut; Groot's screams were deafening now, his body twisted in terrifying angle.

Stop! Groot, please, stop! Somebody help me!

Then it happened. Crack. Abrupt silence.

And in that terrifying, abominable moment of eardrum-breaking sound of wood snapping, Peter jerked upwards and felt sick. He could feel it — a hot, pressing lava of vomit ascending north threatening to spill over, and all he could do is press a palm firmly against his mouth, squeeze his eyes shut, and pray for eruption to subdue and stay away from his bed. He tried to synchronize his breathing, to lead it to control and rationalize, but his brain was still stuck, mercilessly echoing Groot's helpless tiny shrieks of pain and snapping sound as his fragile little body broke in half. What horrified Peter the most was his own cold, psychopathic apathy that'd taken control of his hands and kept adding pressure harder and harder, despite Peter screaming along with Groot soundlessly in the background, faint, desperate cry of not being able to do anything, a heart-twisting mirroring of that other time with...

Peter shook, frantically searching his hands, flexing his fingers to ensure he's got all control over them, madly scanning the mattress and covers. Groot's name fluttered on his lips on repeat.

There was a tiny sound to his left and Peter's eyes averted that way.

Groot was sleeping on his nightstand just under the lamp, his tiny body draped in a tiny improvised blanket the Ravagers probably used as a kitchen rug. It rose and fell as tiny tree snored in and out, emitting the noise that made Peter make a noise of his own. Something he couldn't identify himself; a sob, a breath, a choke? He wasn't sure.

It was a dream. It was just a dream.

But that wasn't enough.

Peter reached out, yearning to maneuver this fragile baby gently in his hands, to tell him everything was going to be alright, to tell him he was sorry, but then he saw his hand. And he saw its uncontrol, saw its wild, maddening shaking he couldn't conceive himself, leading Peter to an unsettling conclusion; he was scared. He was petrified that, if he'd touch Groot, he'd break him in half, just like then. He would hear agony compressed in a tiny voice of despair and torture.

As he drew his hand back, nausea returned as well.

He mustn't touch Groot.

Not ever again.

Peter shook out of bed. Shook out of his room. Shook down the corridor and down the Third quadrant. He shook past Gamora's room, but barely acknowledged it. He shook in front of familiar door and entered with no hesitation just as he shook diving under furry bed covers. And underneath them, Peter shook like a small child.

„Whut da hell..." a croaked voice emerged out of the furry pile and a blue scarred head with a six-inch long fin came from under the covers, blinking disorientedly. Upon discovering a huge lump on one side of his bed, he squinted at first, note sure to make out of what he was seeing, but as there was a small noise coming from underneath, he scoffed.

„Quill, get outta there."

Nothing. Only deep white noise of the ship smoothing through space.

Yondu sighed. „Quill..."

A whine.

„Hey", he dragged the covers back, revealing a mop of sweaty curls and shaky limbs. „Hey. Knock it off, boy. What's wrong with ya?"

Big green eyes, terrified eyes met crimson ones. They craved comfort and nothing else, so Yondu sighed again, recognizing the situation.

„'nother nightmare?"

„Groot."

„What'd the Twig do?"

„I killed him."

Crimson eyes squinted. „ Now why wouldya let that happen?"

„I-I didn't", Peter wanted to grip something, but he supposed it would just slip from his sweaty, shaky grip. „I-I don't know what happened. In one moment we were having fun and then all of a sudden he was just... I had no control of my...", and Peter found himself babbling it all out, despite the fact he could barely talk at all, but as the explaining went on, he felt the river of speech flow more and more fluently, as well as feeling of something huge abandon his chest; a heaviness he neglected to notice somehow. His shaking subdued.

Once he was finished, Yondu immediately snorted. „Naw, y'aint capable of that, Quill."

„Thanks, Yondu."

„That Twig's tougher than you, he'd beat you up in a bad of an eyelash", and as he wheezed out a heartfelt laugh, Peter punched him in the arm, even as there was no malice in his frown. Oh, how he had missed this. Opportunities to feel safe, to be consoled like this, just like when he was eight. But those moments, unable to be counted on fingers of one hand, had barely happened, and completely vanished once Peter got older. No more consoling. Ravagers are tough, they find their own way around things.

When Yondu was done chuckling, he focused the crimson of his eyes on his protégée again, and something tugged at his chest, spilling a pleasant feeling over his abdomen when he sees the Terran's expression soften and his body reducing to relax. Still, the uncomfortable fear wouldn't leave his piercing green gaze.

„Hear me out, Quill", the Centaurian directs the boy's thoughts to him. „It was just a dream."

Peter seemingly curled into himself a bit. „It... it felt so real... I can still feel it in my fingers."

„Boy, Twig is fine."

A glare from the Terran party. „You don't understand."

„Think I don't?" It was Yondu's turn to glare. He poked himself in the temple. „Ya think I ain't raging havoc in here every night? Ya wanna know what goes on in me?"

„Look who's talking, you aids-ridden, syphilis-wrinkled scrotum bag."

Maybe it was an impressive cussing that reduced a pang of guilt in the whistler's chest. He did something with his forehead that might've been lifting of an eyebrow. „We ain't discussin' me here, boy, thought we were discussin' Twig."

Peter averted his eyes. „Well, yes."

„Then it's settled. Twig's fine, I'm fine, now back to yer room or I'll have an arrow chase ya all the way there."

Still talking, Yondu straightened the covers and settled back his head, preparing to get back to sleep. But Quill didn't share the same boat. He dove under the covers, a convulsing pile of Terran under the blanket, a sight which would've been unsettling if someone were to enter the room at that moment, before a red mop and part of the strong chest popped from the other side, settling on the mattress next to the Centaurian and emitting a long sigh.

Even before the sound ended, Yondu was talking. „Oh, hell no. No, no, no. Back to yer own bed, yer not eight anymore, Quill."

Peter groaned something along the lines of 'piss off'.

To his own surprise, Yondu didn't react as flamed up as he normally would, but maybe it's just a consequence of realization how much things have changed in a very short time. „Ye askin' to get punched through with that arrow, idjit? Would serve ya right after all these years. Get out."

„I just dreamed of someone very close to me die, Dad", Peter mumbled, eyes closed. „If I should dream of a similar event that had nearly happened, I prefer staying right damn where I am."

The Centaurian was actually more surprised by the firm insistence in the kid's voice than the fact that he called him 'dad'. It still showed him that nope, not even after twenty six years, the boy had no tendency of changing. That cheeky lil' eight year old before him.

Another sigh confirmed to Yondu that he finally decided to give up on sending Peter back to bed, and he honestly thought Quill was too old for that shit since he'd hit puberty. If he wanted to, he could damn well walk himself back to bed.

„Thought we established I apologized for that."

„I still have nightmares, you asshole, don't expect I'll forgive you that soon."

Even though Peter wasn't looking at him, Yondu did look down at him. He thought about how after all mistakes Yondu had done about him, Quill still grew up into this smart, strong and brave man he was today. Off rampaging on his own, saving the galaxy fuckin' twice, and never leaving Yondu's side since after they'd been picked up hastily from the vast emptiness of cold space. Yondu suppressed a shudder. He didn't think he'd forget the feeling of biting cold on his skin and insides anytime soon.

Fondness stuck in his eyes and with no chances of leaving, Yondu reached out, warmly petting the boy's curls. Impulsively, the Terran scurried over closer, pressing his face in Yondu's neck as Yondu's arm came to wrap around him, rubbing Peter's arm up and down. Boy's frantic shivering had subdued completely by now. „I know ya won't, kid", he said quietly. „I know ya won't."

„You do anything like that again and I'll beat you up."

„Y'already beat me up."

„You deserved it."

„Mistake on my part, ya tried to beat me up. It came out more like yer eight years old all over again, tryin' to fist me for that stupid music box of yers."

Yondu was sure he felt Peter's cheeks warm up and he chuckled quietly as the younger gave a weak tired punch in his chest. „Dad, seriously."

„I might wanna return back out there if ya keep callin' me 'dad'."

Quill's beard tickled his neck as he grinned. „You called yourself dad first."

„Shaddup, Quill."

„And quit nagging about it." If possible, Peter snuggled even closer, feeling as safe and content as the first time he slept over in Yondu's bed while still lost and petrified in his new surroundings. „There's no one to hide it from now. Everybody knows about Blue daddy, anyway."

„Ya start callin' me that and I'll space ya."

„Nah, you won't."

Anomaly in engine's deep rumble could be heard - probably a bigger meteor crashing in Eclector's shields. „Naw, I won't."

Yondu's hand retreated back to working in Quill's ginger curls, knowing it would calm him down and lull him back to sleep, which didn't take long to start working. He could feel the boy's breathing even out as he himself felt his eyelids grow heavy and muscles relaxing.

„Quill?"

„Hm?" It came out barely as a breath.

„Don't chu worry 'bout Twig. He's fine."

Again, he could feel a small smile work its way on the boy's face. „Thanks", and then, "I love you, dad."

„Mmh."

A moment of illusionistic silence where Yondu had hoped this soft little jackass had fallen asleep. But then there was one last, tired "daaaaaaad", that ridiculously tried to sound like a warning, so Yondu nearly snorted.

But he compromised instead, sleep taking over, so much that he was only half aware of what he was saying. „Love you, too, Peter."

.

...

.

~~~~What the fuck did I just write? I was high-tired last night, and I think my period is on the way because this kind of overfluffy emotional bullcrap is what I the world calls pre-PMS shit! Welp! I hope you enjoyed anyway. :)

And many thanks to Les Friction for their musical inspiration! They are really cool, check them out. ;)~~~~