Play Me a Memory

by Athena's Owl

Peter finds himself in a ridiculously bad situation. His mom turns up, and maybe that's not a good thing.

A/N: Tissue Warning ahead. This whole thing is very sad. And very sweary. Because if the movie hadn't been PG13, you just know they'd be swearing up a storm.

Thanks to fingers-falling-upwards for doing an amazing beta job, and then waiting half a year for me to do anything about it.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Like Marvel would allow me to do this kind of thing. I also do not own the small piece of Billy Joel's Piano Man that is used.

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Peter is not one for irony. All his life it has seemed as though someone knows what's going to happen - and that person isn't him. But this? This is irony at its worst. Because after more than twenty years he has finally found himself some honest-to-god friends (that really are almost verging on family), and after less than ten years with them (hell, less than five), he is dying. And here's the ironic part:

He's dying alone.

In a fucking ditch.

Because regardless of where you are in the galaxy, apparently that's where you toss your dead bodies.

Peter is going to die alone, and that sucks. A lot.

Almost as much as the mulch that is currently trying to pull him under.

The sky above him is an unforgiving burnt yellow. The disconcerting mix of overwhelming brightness and charred smokiness makes his head swim – although, to be fair, there are almost certainly other factors involved. Head injuries can do that to a guy.

In a half-hearted attempt to see what else is wrong with him, he does his best to pull his head up from the muck. With a heavy squelching sound he succeeds - barely. Nothing below his shoulders is working, so the muscles in his neck are working crazy hard and it hurts like a bitch. Although now that he's up, his senses are receiving a wealth of information he's actually not sure he wanted to know. His hands are submerged in the goopy brown stuff, but if they weren't, he'd see missing fingernails and delicate circlets of bruises around his wrists. His knees are just visible above the slime, which means he has a perfect view of his no-longer right kneecap. Because, oh hey, kneecapping is a thing throughout the galaxy as well. And in pride of place, more or less in the center of his stomach, is a continuously blossoming patch of red, traveling across his dirty grey shirt like a seeping watercolor. He can't even move his hands to try and plug the giant hole in his abdomen. His surroundings aren't that much better (i.e. they also look like they're dead or in the process of dying). The grasses and pebbles that litter the embankment are all more or less the same colour as the sky, give or take a few shades, and the whole scene reeks of life that started wilting long before Peter got here.

It's too depressing to look at, and his neck is really fucking hurting, so he drops his head back to the ground. Mud splatters under his jacket collar, and there's the irritating sensation of a single drop snaking its way down his neck. He can't do anything about it though. Can't do anything about anything really.

Peter is going to die alone and he can't even try to stop it.

If he could move, he'd shed the remnants of his jacket, wad it up and press it against the wound to try and stem the bleeding. If he could move, he'd rip the sleeves off his shirt and bandage the wound, to try and stop further infection. If he could move, he'd get out of this god-damned mud-pit and, you know, NOT die of hypothermia or mud-asphyxiation. But he can't move and he can't do any of those things, so he gets to bleed out with a side order of freezing to death and just a dash of asphyxiation for extra spice.

He has twenty minutes. Maybe. Because a) he's not sure how long he was unconscious for before they rolled him down the embankment, and b) there's the whole lying in mud thing. He knows his teammates will be looking for him, because they do things like that. But even he can't hope that they'll find him in the next twenty minutes. And he can't stop the bleeding to give them more time.

"FUCK!" he rasps out. Speaking is a searingly painful act, but hey, at least his throat still works. The sound wouldn't register at righteous anger levels on the decibel scale, or be of much use if he was trying to do something useful like call for help, but he can talk to himself and isn't that just great.

He doesn't want to die, and he certainly doesn't want to die alone. But, Peter thinks, it could be worse.

Except it couldn't. And he knows this because lying to yourself wasn't a particularly useful skill to have as a kidnapped eight-year-old, in a different galaxy, living with the very aliens who had kidnapped you, and trying not to be eaten by said aliens. When it came down to it, accepting the truth of reality usually helped you stay alive longer. Or at least, it did if you were the only party concerned. Now lying to other people… well that could actually come in pretty damn handy. It wasn't that he hadn't tried lying to himself over the years. It was just that he had trained himself so well that it never really worked. He could put on the appearance of denial, throw other people off their guard, but internally he was always on the right page. The were just days when he kind of wished he could leave the real world, and live in the fantasy land he'd seen others occupying; all denial, happiness, and unicorns. Man, if today wasn't one of those days.

Because if he's really trying to be honest with himself, being dead already would probably be an improvement.

So much for optimism.

And that right there is the crux of the matter. He can't even hope. He's not dead yet, but he knows he's dying, he knows there's nothing he can do about it, and knowing that you're completely helpless and doomed and all that makes it very hard to walk into death's welcoming arms or whatever. He didn't choose this. He can't fight it either. There is really, genuinely, nothing to shoot, nothing to kill, nothing to do.

But he still can't help but think that lying in a ditch waiting to die is a pretty terrible way to go.

It's not even how he's supposed to go. He's down here because Varat thought he was dead. Star-Lord the legendary outlaw was meant to die in Varat's comfy cozy sitting room, standing tall-ish (knee-cap remember), looking death in the face and smart-mouthing 'till the very end. He'd even managed to escape, by himself, which is why he was in the living quarters and not Varat's favourite dungeon cell. He'd also kind of gotten caught (minor flaw in the plan), but when they'd both said their pieces, Peter was standing in the middle of the room, taking vindictive pleasure in bleeding all over a very expensive looking carpet, and waiting for the execution shot. But when it came it wasn't a shot to the head like he'd been expecting.

It was to the stomach.

Varat was a sadistic son-of-a-bitch. Despite the wealth of technology available to him in the form of plasma pistols and laser guns, he had a wide collection of what he called antiques. Because bullets don't cauterize wounds. Bullets don't dissipate after contact. And Peter doesn't know if the D'astard was aiming for his spinal cord, but he is 99% sure that's where the bullet ended up. At the moment of impact, everything went white, and he's been shot before and it didn't hurt like that. He doesn't know exactly what happened after the initial, staggering impact. But he went down, and from the sharp pain at the corner of his temple, and the crackling of dried blood that occurred when he first woke up, he feels safe in assuming that he hit his head on the ornate marble table somewhere between the blinding white of it hurts it hurts it hurts and the encroaching black of unconsciousness. On the positive side he got blood on more of Varat's things. On the negative, his eyes must not have closed because they assumed he was dead (the amateurs didn't even check), and drove his body to its present resting place. Varat was probably pretty upset that he didn't get to watch Peter writhe in agony as he died, aware of every passing moment that brought him closer to death.

If only he knew.

If he'd died there in that room, in agony like he was supposed to, at least he could have pretended he'd died heroically. Blaze of glory, valiant last stand, courage in the face of certain death and all that. But he didn't. It would've been cool to die in the heat of battle, or saving one of his teammates or something.

Instead he gets the ditch. Because he's fucking Star-Lord and if dying in a ditch doesn't summarize his career pretty well then what does?

He's made a comeback in the last few years, sure. Saving entire planets and being part of a group with a name like 'The Guardians of the Galaxy' does something for your reputation. There have been a few grateful damsels in dis -

Movement. Somewhere behind him. Too quiet to be one of Varat's goons coming back to check on the job (like they'd even bother).

It had better not be a snake. That is all he needs right now. Because while getting bitten might speed along the process a bit, with his luck it won't be painless.

There's nothing now, but there was, and he can't even turn his head to check that some big creepy thing isn't lurking behind him waiting to feast on his body as soon as he expires.

"Fuck!" he says again, and he's pleased that it's slightly louder this time.

Funny. He would've thought his voice would be getting weaker, what with dying and all. Adrenaline maybe?

"Oh sweetheart, you have been so brave."

Or maybe it's just a hallucination. Maybe he's hallucinating his own voice, because that second voice sure sounded like his mom….

His brain has got to be joyriding the crazy train. If he can think even for a moment that he is genuinely hearing his mother, he is a lost cause, say buh-bye Peter, abandon hope all ye who enter here, nutso. 'Cause his mom is dead, and to his knowledge dead people don't tend to pipe up all that often. So he's either died without noticing (and he likes to think that would involve no longer being in a ditch) or he's hallucinating; neither of which is a good thing. To top it all off he spots something moving in his peripheral, and promptly slams his eyes shut against this suck-ass world. If his dead mother is going to be making a cameo appearance in this tragi-comedy, he'll be subscribing to audio only, thank you.

And if it's something snakey, then at least he won't see it coming.

"Are you in any pain?" the voice asks, and HELL NO, this is not okay. He is not doing this. He can't. Find another player Trebek, 'cause this guy isn't playing that game. He would give almost anything to talk to his mom again, but his life is not one of them. Then again, he's not so much giving it as losing it right now...

Peter opens his eyes.

His mother is sitting in the mud beside him, her pale blue dress unmarred by the muck. Her face is full, cheeks rosy with color, blue eyes bright instead of dull, and her blond hair is brushing against her shoulders. He can't pick out her shoulder bones from beneath the sleeves of her dress. A faint hint of something fresh overlays the stench of mud and blood around him. Not grass, no, or sea air... laundry. It's clean laundry. The scent she always carried when she came in from hanging the damp clothes out on the porch to dry in the summer. She doesn't smell of the hospital, or cancer, or death, and HOLY shit, his mom is here.

She smiles sadly and reaches out a hand to brush against his cheek and how the hell does that work? Because he feels her hand touch him. He actually feels it.

"Are you in any pain?" she asks again.

Peter reverts to his default nonchalance. If he could shrug he would, because he doesn't understand how this works.

"Not really," he rasps, and it's remarkably blasé for the situation he's in thank you very much. "But then again I'm pretty sure my nervous system is shot - literally – so there's that." And if he didn't just pull off casual while dying in front of his already dead mother Rocket can have free reign to dismantle his mix-tapes.

"My brave, brave boy," she says, as she places her hand in his hair and starts to gently run her thumb along his temple like she used to do when he had nightmares as a kid. "I am so proud of you."

No.

No.

He did not last this long, he did not go through all that pain, to start crying because of a freaking hallucination. Just ...no.

But it's hard because that's kind of what he wants to hear most right now. What he's wanted to hear for a very long time. Because she made him who he is, even though she wasn't there. She was why he was never 100% a dick, even when he was mostly one. She was why he turned his life around and started saving people rather than robbing them (although, yeah, that still did happen on occasion). He wasn't just Star-Lord. He was her Star-Lord. And if a tear does leak out of his eye, and down his cheek, and if she wipes it away with her thumb, well there's nobody else around to comment, is there?

"M-mom," he finally stutters, and her smile grows from sad to something else entirely.

"It's all right sweetheart. You're not alone. You're never alone."

His breath hitches in his chest, and he's not sure if that's a suppressed sob, or his body legitimately struggling to breathe. Could be either, could be both. Because he is alone. As much as he wishes she were here, his mom is just a hallucination. A product of his tired, pain-riddled brain, which is trying and failing to find a way to keep him alive.

He has been alone for so long, and he is alone now, and nothing his hallucinations say or do will change that.

"Oh honey. But you aren't. I know you think I'm not really here, but I am. Not physically. I have always been in your heart — don't you scoff at me Peter — and I always will be. You won't die alone. I'll be here. I'll be with you until the last and beyond. Although I know your friends are coming. They'll come. You know that too, so why can't you believe it?"

"S'not... s'not... that I don't...s'just... they won't get here in time. You know?"

Her smile fades a bit and well shit. What does that mean?

"Does it matter when they get here, as long as they come?"

"Well I was kinda hoping... not to die?" It's a question. Because damn if a little bit of hope hasn't snuck back into him. Maybe, just maybe, they will get here in the next twenty minutes. Fifteen. Whatever. They'd have to work fast, but maybe they could do something. He'd probably be crippled for the rest of his life, and he couldn't go on assignments, and it would suck, but he wouldn't be dead. And that would be nice. Plus, he's only half-human, and medical technologies on other planets are pretty advanced so he might not even end up paralyzed. Which would be awesome.

His mom doesn't say anything to that though, which is answer enough.

The little bubble of hope that had been inflating in his chest pops.

Or maybe that's just his ribs.

"Oh," he breathes out, and turns his head to the side. His cheek is now resting in the mud, but he doesn't care. He wants this to end. No matter what she says his mom is a hallucination, and she isn't here, can't be here, and no one is going to be here when he dies. He closes his eyes because he doesn't want to see her anymore. He'd thought that when he finally saw his mom again, he'd already be in heaven or something, or she'd be standing in some white light beckoning him forward and all that cliché bullshit. He didn't expect her to be trying to comfort him in his last excruciating moments of loneliness. It isn't what he wants either, as much as it pains him to admit it. He just wants to get the hard part over with.

Whoever said dying is easy hadn't lived Peter's kind of life.

He feels a hand on the exposed cheek and draws in a sharp breath through his nose.

Oh.

This is the universe getting one last kick in. This is some mother-fucking deity with a shitty sense of humor having one great big belly laugh.

'Cause yeah, it's hitting him now. That whole irony thing? He did kind of run away and literally leave his mother on her deathbed, didn't he.

With a sharpness unrivaled by any hologram it comes roaring back to him in color By Technicolor!, world's favorite for motion pictures. The ratty hallway, all linoleum floors, and 'calming' (yeah right) yellow walls. The family members he hadn't ever met before telling him how much he's grown, how brave he's being. The grief in his grandfather's face not so subtly masked over with determination to get everything as it should be before her final moments.

There were a ton of people there, but Peter knows he was the only one who mattered to her. And he ran. She was in pain, obviously scared, obviously yearning for the comfort of her only child one last time, and he ran.

Did she feel this level of bitterness at the world? For it taking life away from her so early? No - she was too loving, too in touch with life and all it meant for that kind of darkness to touch her. Maybe she just blamed him instead.

"Peter."

The voice is soft and pleading and sad, and fuck it, if there's one thing he can't do, he can't make his mother sad, hallucination or not.

He turns his back towards her, opens his eyes to see her leaning over him, hand cupping his face with a tenderness he hasn't felt in more than twenty years.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, looking up into her eyes, taking in the life behind them. And maybe it won't be so bad if he plays along for a bit. He gets to see his mom healthy again. He gets to hear his mom healthy again. He gets to think of his mom as his Mom again, and not as some sickly figure unable to move from a bed. Maybe, just maybe, this can be okay.

For a little while.

He can see that his words have surprised her. "Whatever for?" she asks, tilting her head in that way she has when she wants to know what's on his mind. And what the hell? It's his final minutes on earth (in the galaxy, whatever), might as well get this off his chest.

"For not being there enough. For being scared. For… for not taking care of you more. For running away and getting kidnapped by aliens so I couldn't attend your funeral. For letting you dow-"

His eyes are burning, and his chest is on fire, and he just wants to get across that he's sorry, he's so sorry.

"Shh," she soothes him, moving her hand from his cheek back up to his hairline, and beginning the rhythmic stroking again. "You have never let me down. You never could have. And even in my wildest dreams I never thought that I could be as proud of you as I am. You have done great things. You are a good person. You are an amazing friend and leader. You are my son and I love you."

Peter closes his eyes and tries to get his breathing back under control. His mother just continues to rub her thumb back and forth across his temple, doing her best to calm him.

They sit in quiet and solitude for a while. The silence around him is less oppressive than it was before. His mother is there after all, and the sound of her breathing alleviates the heaviness that would otherwise be pressing down on him. The only other noise is the slight whistling that the wind creates as it rushes over the lip of the embankment, dipping down slightly before rushing up the other side and into the low grasses that grow there. The sound makes him think of Yondu. He wonders what the Centaurion would make of the predicament Peter's found himself in now.

He'd probably laugh a bit, tell him it was his own damn fault, and call him an idiot. He'd probably try and save Peter too, pretending not to care all the while, but that's irrelevant. Yondu doesn't know where he is anymore than the rest of the Guardians do. In fact he's probably much, much further away. Perhaps the more interesting question is what his reaction will be when he finds out that Peter is dead.

"What are you thinking?" his mother asks, and Peter realizes that a small smile has crept onto his face at the thought that Yondu will only be angry at the audacity Peter had to up and die without letting the alien be the one to kill him.

"About the others," he answers quietly. "What they'll think, what they'll do. I just… don't want them to go through any of this."

And now the anger is welling up again, because they've all lost so much already, and the Guardians are losing another teammate, and he's losing his own life thank you very much, and quite frankly it isn't fair.

"Why now?!" he asks, jerking his head away from her hand again, refusing to meet her gaze. "Why do I have to die now? What did I do to deserve this - no don't answer that— what did they do to deserve this? We've been doing so well, and now… and now…" He's not crying. He's NOT.

"We don't get to choose when we die, Kid," says a male voice from out of fucking nowhere, and SERIOUSLY, now would be a good time to fall unconscious, because what the fuck is even happening?!

Uncle Hank, who died when he was six when one of the horses kicked him in the head, is standing behind his mom, propping himself up against the embankment. One booted foot is in the mud (not that the boot has mud on it because hallucinations don't get to have the same fun he's having), and the other is braced against the rocky slope behind him. He's wearing that dumbass Stetson which makes him look like a Texas rancher.

"Hey, don't insult the Stetson. Your aunt married me for this Stetson."

Really, it's an achievement that Peter isn't laughing hysterically right now. Instead, he only raises an incredulous eyebrow, partly because what in the actual hell, and partly because he knows Aunt Marnie hated that Stetson. Also, he didn't even say anything.

His uncle shrugs. "You know we're hallucinations. We're in your head. 'Course we know what you're thinkin' about.'" And yeah, maybe he'd kind of forgotten about that.

His mother reaches out and smacks her brother in the shin. "Go easy on him, Hank."

"Kid never needed me to go easy on him before."

"STOP." This just needs to...stop. He can't take this. He's having a shitty enough day as it is and (barring a miracle), it's his last one. So he would very much like for his brain to stop arguing with itself. Because that's what's happening. And he doesn't like it. This whole SNAFU has gone beyond overwhelming, jumped the fence of 'anxiety inducing', and is now firmly ensconced in the psychedelic fields of 'Peter has gone batshit crazy'. He's dying in a ditch talking to dead people. If he needs a moment, he thinks that's fair.

"Just ... stop. Please." And nope he is not almost crying again.

There's silence. He watches his mother and his uncle, and the only thing he feels is his mother's fingers brushing against his temple, because throughout the whole thing she hasn't stopped doing that. And he likes it, but he hates it because she's not there, neither of them are there, and this whole thing is total bullshit—

"Kid, calm down. You need to keep breathing. You've got some time left, and there's no need for you to cut it short."

And oh that's where the black spots in his vision were coming from.

He'd stopped breathing.

He's an idiot.

He takes a breath in, and it hurts more than he remembers.

"There ya go. Easy does it."

His vision clears and his uncle is still there and his mother is still there and what is this.

"You don't... you don't get to..." Peter tries to gasp out, but he starts to cough, and oh hey his vision is white again and he's in the worst pain he's ever been in in his life.

He's not sure whether he actually passes out or not, but he doesn't think so because when he opens his eyes again, everything is as he left it. His mom is gazing past him now, into the opposite embankment, and his uncle is looking at him with something suspiciously close to guilt in his eyes.

"Look kid, I'm sorry that I left ya. But like I said, we don't get to choose when we die. And my death was an accident. I didn't choose it. Just like you didn't choose this. And it sucks, I get that, but we're here to try and help you out. And while your mom is right, and your friends are coming, being alone is a poor hand to be dealt."

And Peter can't even think of a response to that. Because he was mad as hell when his uncle died. His uncle who took him out in the pick-up truck to just ride around the streets and the lanes and the middle of nowhere. His uncle who was the closest thing he had to a father figure (you know, before he got kidnapped by an alien, and isn't that just a whole other can of worms) growing up. His uncle who taught him how to shoot a gun, which is a skill that came in useful in more ways than one, and got reamed out by his mother in what is still one of the best displays of anger he has ever seen. And his uncle just ...left. Died, if he didn't want to sugarcoat it. And then, not even two years later his mom died, and he was so alone.

And while it was rare for him to be physically alone for a long time after that, that deep-seated feeling of lonesomeness took a long time to fade away.

"Tell me about them," his uncle says. And well, okay, that's random.

"You said yourself, you're in my head. You already know everything about them," Peter responds, because the only ones his uncle can be talking about are his teammates. But damn if trying not to cough is taking everything he has.

His uncle shrugs. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Or maybe I'm just trying to keep you awake until they get here."

"Tell him sweetie. I want to hear about them too," his mom says softly. And he can't refuse her anything, so he talks.

He talks about the batshit crazy fiasco that made them a team in the first place. He talks about almost losing Groot, thinking they had lost Groot. He talks about becoming heroes, a word with which none of them were previously familiar, at least in reference to themselves. He talks about heists, and rescues, and near misses, and that time when they totally owned an alien drug lord. He talks about the assassin who has finally let people into her heart and is no less of a total badass because of it. He talks about a destroyer with an unexpected love of cooking, and an endearing misunderstanding of metaphors. He talks about the cybernetic raccoon that gets so fired up about absolutely everything that there's been more than one occasion when he has literally set light to something. He talks about a humanoid tree who loves to dance, and manages to be the voice of reason even though only one other person understands his exact meaning.

He talks and they listen. And it feels kind of good, even if his throat is sore, and his chest is burning, and breathing is sometimes difficult.

He almost doesn't notice when others start joining his family members. Almost. He totally does because even when he's on the point of passing out, he's observant like that. There's people and beings he couldn't save on missions - a girl who got caught in the cross-fire, an undercover Nova Corps agent who didn't make it out, the residents of a building that got destroyed during an attack they were supposed to prevent. There are one or two people he's killed himself, people he wishes he didn't have to kill. There are people he can't place, but he knows their faces. And they all just create a circle around him, some leaning against the slopes of the ditch, others sitting on the ground. He just keeps talking because at this point there's nothing else he can do. He talks and he talks, and yeah maybe he puts a bit of emphasis on how much good he's done, and how many people he's saved (and no he's not trying to make up for something), but the other Guardians get their fair share of the story too.

He talks until he doesn't have a voice to talk anymore.

And then they talk for him.

His mom tells him stories about when he was a kid, stories he'd usually be embarrassed for others to hear, but they're not here anyways, so what's the harm? His uncle talks about how he met Peter's aunt on a road trip across America in a broken down Ford. The little girl talks about how her daddy was teaching her to repair engines, and how much her great grandma dotes on her now. The Nova Corps agent talks about her boyfriend, who worked as a doctor but got killed only a year later, when a refugee camp he was working at got attacked. The residents of Beta-Beta-7J tell stories ranging from first arrests, to pets, to kids, to the neighborhood block party that went down in history for having the best light show ever seen. They all have stories, and they all tell them, their voices filling the space around him with words rather than silence.

He is not alone. The beings around him are all smiling, and talking, and breathing, and moving, and there.

He is not alone. Everything is not exactly okay, but it's better than it was.

Peter closes his eyes. But before he can give into the tiredness that is pervading his body, he feels a light pat on his cheek.

The darkness is tempting, and his eyelids are heavy to lift, but he does it because his mom whispers, "Not yet sweetheart. Just a little longer. They are coming."

It would be kind of cool to see his teammates one last time he figures. But it is becoming so, so hard to stay awake. He's about to protest, to tell his mom he's sorry, but he's going to have to let her down again, when she starts to sing.

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
making love to his tonic and gin

The song grows as more of the voices around him join in. It doesn't even bother him that most of them aren't from Terra and shouldn't know the words. He turns his head slightly, so that his mother's voice is clearest to him, and just listens as the words ebb and swell around him. He's not sure how long it goes on for. For all he knows they've been singing for a while, and are just repeating the same song over and over again. He doesn't even feel the need to make a song request. In some ways it's even better than his Walkman.

Sing us a song, you're the piano man

"Peter! PETER!"

Huh. He's pretty sure that's not part of the chorus.

Sing us a song tonight

"Friend Quill!"

Well we're all in the mood for a melody

"Quill you moron, where are you?!"

And you've got us feelin' all right.

"I am Groot!"

"I told you they would come," his mom says as she smiles gently at him. She's the only one left. The others have disappeared back into the recesses of his mind or wherever they came from.

Peter smiles back at her, although his eye-lids are drooping now, and he probably looks like an idiot.

"Hold on just a little while longer sweetheart. They're almost here."

"Mhmmm," he hums in agreement.

His mother takes his hand, and its almost as though he can feel it this time.

She begins to hum.

La da da de de da

La la de de da da

"I am GROOT!"

Huh. That voice sounds distinctly closer than it did before. His mom stops humming and through his half-closed eyelids he sees her raise her head to look at the top of the embankment. She looks back to him and he thinks she might be squeezing his hand.

"They are here. Remember, I will stay with you to the end sweetheart. You might not see me but I will be here."

He wants to say something, but his lips are numb, and his tongue is far too heavy to move and form sounds.

"What! Where? DOWN TH… Oh crap. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."

There's a crashing sound behind him, and what sounds like several people sliding down the embankment— which is probably exactly what they're doing. They haven't planned how to get back out. But they'll be fine. It's steep, and it's slippery, but they'll be fine. They always are.

Something rough touches his face gently, and he hears a low keen from behind him. Groot.

"Quill, even you cannot be stupid enough to die in a ditch. Move damnit!" His head is wobbling around so someone must be shaking him. Rocket. Peter can't see him because he's still facing right, looking at his mother, who is still smiling down at him and holding his hand. All of a sudden somebody green replaces her. Gamora, who has just crashed to her knees beside him.

"His eyes are open. Is that not good?" A looming figure is towering over him, standing behind Gamora. Drax.

"I don't know, I don't know—" Gamora's hands are fluttering over his body, and she's not sure where to start, but they're all here.

His friends —his family— they're here.

He smiles.

Gamora picks up on the slight twitch, and is immediately right in his face, her hair falling around them and tickling his cheeks.

"Peter?" she asks, and if he didn't know any better, he would definitely identify that tone as panic. And just in case it is, he doesn't want her to panic (there's no point), so he forces his heavy eyelids open just a bit more. Drax and Gamora solidify into something more than foggy edged blobs, and she leans back looking slightly slightly relieved. She places her hands on either side of his face and gently turns his head so that he is looking straight up. And there's Groot towering directly into his line of vision, and Rocket is now on the other side of Gamora.

"Peter, are you with us?" she asks. And he can't really nod, or talk, so he just "Mhmm"s again.

"You'll be okay. We're going to get you out of here. You'll be okay." And yeah, there's definitely a bit of panic there. Though Gamora stays where she is, her hands grasping the sides of his face, the others begin to move. He's not sure what their plan is, if they have a plan, but words would be pretty good right about now. He struggles to swallow, forces his tongue up behind his teeth and manages a strangled,

"No."

They freeze. Rocket, steps back into his line of vision, a look of sheer incredulity plastered across his face, his whiskers twitching with ire.

"What?"

Does he really have to say it again?

It comes a bit easier this time. Or at least it sounds less like he's been swallowing swords for the last two days.

"No."

"Pete, do you want to die in a ditch?" Rocket asks, and his expression has changed from incredulous to somewhere between angry and terrified. The other three are wearing similar expressions.

Okay time to speak. Just have to move the lips and the tongue and the vocal cords, and it should be easy.

"Don... wan...b'lone," is what he manages to get out. It's not exactly eloquent, but it's there, and one of them should understand him, one of them has to understand him...

"You won't be alone Peter. We'll get you back to the ship, and to medical help, and at least one of us will be with you at all times. I swear we won't leave you alone," Gamora tries to convince him (and from the guilt in her eyes he's guessing there's an implicit 'again' at the end of that sentence). But that's not what he's getting at. Because right here, right now, they're all around him, and he can see them. And if he's being carried back to the ship, he won't know they're all there. Sure, he doesn't exactly want to die in a ditch, but if his team are all there around him, that's infinitely preferable to being drugged up in a hospital bed somewhere, waiting to die (like his Mom). Or dying on the way back to his ship.

Because really, he's pretty sure he won't even last that long.

But he can't say all that. Hell he can't say half of that. So he just stares at Gamora, and tries his hardest to communicate with his eyes that he's sorry, he's so fucking sorry, but he's going to die and he'd rather do it here with all of them around him.

Somehow she gets it. There's something between them that allows that to happen. Her eyes fill with tears, and that has only happened like once before, and now its his fault and, damn, he's glad they're here, but this is a lot harder than he thought it would be. Her hands move from his face and he thinks they move to grasp his hand.

"Gamora? Should we not leave as soon as possible?" Drax questions.

She shakes her head, and Peter is so grateful that she understood him.

"NO?!" Rocket squawks. "What the HELL Gamora?! He needs medical attention, like, five hours ago!"

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, because the yelling was fine when it was several feet away, but now that it's right next to him it's seriously painful.

"I am Groot," Groot says from behind him, and the tree's tone is mournful, but at least there are two beings here that get what's going on now. Peter peels his eyelids back open (and that is way harder than it should be) to see Groot's upside down head tilting sideways, his eyes boring into Peter's. He gives the tiniest jerk of his head, which Groot seems to understand.

Thanks.

There's a moment of silence, in which the implications of Gamora's actions and Groot's comment sinks into the others. But Rocket isn't going to take that kind of news lying down. Peter doesn't expect him to.

"No. Ain't no doin'. Abso-fucking-lutely not. I did not bust my ass getting you mangy lot out here, just for the resident humie to decide that dying sounded like a good idea. That is not a good idea. That is a terrible idea. So you look at me Quill and you listen close, ya D'astard. We are getting your moronic ass outta here, and we are doing that before you croak. And you are not going to croak. You're gonna gripe and complain and I'm going to wanna stick my ears in the engines so I don't hafta listen to your whinin', because I am never going to let you live down the fact that we had to come and save Shit-Lord from a fucking ditch." The raccoon is breathing heavily, fur standing on end, paws bunched into fists at his side.

"I am Groot," Groot soothes, but Rocket is having none of it.

"NO! Am I the only one on this team who isn't an idiot? What part of him DYING is not getting through your thick skulls?! Quill, you clearly have brain damage, well, more than usual, so I'm going to just ignore you now, while I convince these dumbasses that, hey, maybe a hospital is actually good idea for someone who is bleeding out."

Even though he was expecting this, it still hurts Peter to see Rocket struggling with denial. He resists the urge to close his eyes against the onslaught of Rocket's angry, pissed off, desperate shouting. It's the least he can do for the companion who has done more than his fair share of saving Peter's ass in the past.

"Rocket, look," Gamora tries, but Rocket is in full throttle and he's not going to stop anytime soon, and it's loud and it's painful to listen to— in more ways than one. But it's kind of nice in it's own way. Rocket doesn't often show that he cares, but Peter's been around long enough to know that, more often than not, yelling and cursing you out is his way of doing so.

"I am looking. And I'm seeing a fucked up knee, and a fucked up head, and a fucking hole, which by the way nobody is doing anything about, and Pete is gonna die if we don't DO something!" Rocket is now pacing back and forth, splattering mud about with his angry footsteps and pointing at each of them accusatorially. Peter can see that he's about to renew his tirade after a few deep breaths, but this time Drax unexpectedly interrupts.

"I believe he wishes to die a warrior's death."

And well... yeah but no. Mud and ditches aren't exactly Peter's idea of heroism. He's pretty sure a heroic death is a long gone possibility now. And apparently Rocket agrees, because the tirade continues after only a brief second of incredulous silence.

"HOW IS A DITCH IN ANY WAY HEROIC," he practically bellows. "I know Quill's got his messed up quirks, but why would he want to die here?!" Paws are up in the air, gesturing to the space around the group as if they're ignorant of where they are. This is getting to be too much. Peter's beginning to feel like he's torturing the guy, but he can't even get the words out to explain or calm him down. But he's gotta try. He struggles to get his tongue to work again, and ignores the fact that it's getting harder and harder each time he does so.

"Wi' you ga's," Peter breathes out, and it's barely more than that; a sigh with some distinguishing syllables. But Rocket's ears prick, and he stops his ranting to listen, obviously sensitive to any sounds from Peter at the moment. He does his best to continue, and closes his eyes as if he can take some extra energy from his vision and channel it into his words. "Whon... make't. Bl'd too... too lon." His eyes open again and he locks them onto Rocket. He has to understand, he just has to. And Peter should say something meaningful like 'peace', or 'friends', but the relationship he has with his teammates is... special. So instead he puts the last of his energy into a perfectly enunciated

"Jackass."

And it's worth it for the look of 'are-you-serious' that passes over Rocket's face, but it soon morphs into a look of understanding, and distress, and guilt, and sorrow, and that's not quite as satisfying. But at least Rocket finally gets it. And if the "Oh" that leaves Rocket's mouth as his ears press flat against his head is more than a little broken, well Peter can ignore that. He's gotten very good at ignoring things today.

He sighs.

They're all on the same page. They always end up there eventually, even if some of them skip the foreword, and some start at the back of the book.

"Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable, Peter Quill?" Drax's deep timbre rumbles from behind him.

He looks at them all, sees their dejected expressions, and feels like a terrible person. He knows what it's like not to be able to do anything (oh hey, the irony is back), and he's basically making them watch him die. The least he can do is give them something to do.

"M'col," he manages to get out.

Drax nods again, and asks "We could remove you slightly from this mud, but would moving you not cause considerable pain?"

And how is he supposed to explain his almost complete paralysis? Instead of even attempting it, he settles for a feeble shake of his head. It's really only a movement of like one inch to the left and back again, but it gets the intended message across.

Groot's image shifts in front of him, as the tree moves around his side and then settles himself in the mud in front of Peter. Drax takes the abandoned place, and Peter finds his torso being slowly raised out of the mud, before he is settled back against the Destroyer's chest, his head lolling against the huge shoulder. He can't really feel a difference, but he can see more, and he feels slightly less helpless for not being laid out flat on his back. In front of him Groot is examining his legs. A tendril of vines reaches out and wraps around his knee, twisting above and below his shattered kneecap. As Peter's legs are lifted into Groot's lap, he realizes that the vines are an attempt to stabilize his injury. He smiles. He can't feel the pain the movement would undoubtedly have caused, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

He's more or less completely out of the mud now, and though it's had plenty of time to soak into his clothes, and his skin, and everything, it still feels wonderful. Well it doesn't feel wonderful. But it is. Wonderful.

Gamora hasn't let go of his hand during the whole process. Now she's looking at him, one eyebrow slightly raised in concern.

"Peter," she starts, and he can see that she is squeezing his hand, but he can't feel it, and he really wishes he could squeeze back, "Why did that not hurt like hell?"

" 'pine," is what he manages in response this time. It takes a moment longer for Gamora to make sense of it than his previous attempts, but he can tell when she does because her eyes go wide, and if he could feel, he'd totally be able to feel her fury crackling the air around them. He's kind of getting that as is.

"Whoa, what?" says Rocket, who has now inched closer towards Groot. "What did he say? What did he mean?"

"Peter, is your spine broken?"

"Bul't," he says, and he's pretty sure he's never been this monosyllabic in his life.

Rocket apparently understands this time because (big surprise) the rage is back. He stalks off to the side, swearing like it's the only thing keeping him breathing, and flings mud all over the hillside. There is a string of largely unintelligible sounds, but the phrase "stupid, rust-loving Terran can't stay away from garbage antiques as old the 'corps and half as useful" stands out.

Gamora, in direct contrast, drops her head so Peter can't see her face, but he can see her shoulders and he can tell she is breathing very, very deeply.

"I do not understand," Drax's voice grumbles from behind him. In turn, Groot's face is a picture of innocent curiosity.

"He..." Gamora starts. "He... shit, Peter. For Terrans, the spine is particularly sensitive to injury. If it gets damaged, they can lose sensation and movement completely. If it doesn't kill them immediately, that is. And Peter apparently has a bullet lodged in his. Which means he hasn't been able to move since this," she waves one hand at his various injuries, which basically comprise his whole body if he's being honest, "happened."

"I am Groot?" says Groot, tilting his head to the side, and staring at the legs in his lap and then back at Peter.

"Yeah. Why—" Rocket has returned from his rage-fit and is now hissing at Peter, "did you say you were cold if you couldn't fucking feel anything?"

Drax shifts behind him, and Peter only finds himself lifted slightly higher out of the mud. He does his best to smile cheekily at the team-members in front of him. Apparently the message gets across because Rocket mutters, "Idiot," but the raccoon is kind-of-sort-of smiling. Gamora smiles too as she shifts herself forward. She keeps hold of his hand in her left one, and smoothes his hair out of his eyes with her right.

"He's right. You are an idiot," she says before the smile falls away. "Stars, Peter, I'm sorry we couldn't find you sooner. That must have been very… difficult."

"But we have removed the heads from those who did this," Drax contributes, and the muscular arms that are around his waist seem to tighten slightly.

The look in Gamora's eyes turns cold, but she reaches behind herself and unclips his Walkman from her belt. "Yes. And we retrieved this from… well, we retrieved it. Would you like me to…." She gestures towards his head.

For a moment the idea is tempting— losing himself in his mother's music one last time, letting the world drift away into riffs and lyrics. For a long time that Walkman was the most important, the only important, thing in his life. But not anymore.

"Mmph," is all he can get out this time. His words are failing him, along with the rest of his body.

Gamora seems to understand, and with a look of both resignation and tenderness, she reattaches the Walkman to her belt. "I'm so sorry you were alone Peter," she says quietly.

He tries to tell them that he wasn't. What he gets out is barely even a whisper.

"Mom".

The others all understand him though. Gamora's eyes fill with tears again, and damn, that is the second time in the last five minutes, and that has definitely not happened before. Drax hugs Peter's body a bit closer to his chest. Rocket's eyes narrow. Groot just nods his head in what seems like comprehension.

"I am glad your loved ones came to you in your time of need," Drax intones. And yeah. Maybe they were a hallucination, but it was pretty good wasn't it.

He watches as Rocket climbs onto Groot's knee, the animal's tail falling oh-so-casually over Peter's legs. Rocket eyes him.

"I'm not going to hold your hand or anything, if that's what you're looking for."

Peter smiles again. No, it's not what he's looking for. He's got everything he's been looking for. He's got things he's been looking for for a very long time.

"I…I can only imagine…," Gamora swallows, and her voice definitely is not shaking. "It must have been good to see your family again, Peter." Her hand gently strokes along his cheek.

"I am Groot."

And yeah, Peter's dying, but Groot's right. He's got family with him, around him, right here. Alive and dead, weird as that may be. But his life's never been normal.

He doesn't have the energy to keep his eyes open any longer, but Gamora continues to stroke his cheek, letting him know she's still there with her touch. He can feel Drax's breath against his neck, steady and constant. He feels something else soft drift by his face, and he knows Groot is releasing his pollen into the air. If he were to open his eyes, maybe there'd even be the little lights floating around, chasing away the darkness. Rocket begins nattering away about the latest parts he's been trying to acquire for a new bomb (although he does not mention the parts he's already taken off the Milano).

They're all there, keeping him company in their own ways. And when another gentle grip takes hold of his left hand, he knows that his mom is still there, just like she said she would be.

So he doesn't panic when he can't get any more air in. He doesn't freak out when Rocket's voice starts to dim. He doesn't even notice when what little physical sensation he does have fades to numbness.

He doesn't know when his heart stops beating, but there a few things he does know. And at the end of the day, it's a pretty damn good list.

He is a Guardian of the Galaxy.

He is Star-Lord.

He is Peter Quill and he is not alone.