Nebula is the next person Quill sees, and god is he glad to see her — something that would've been insane to think a couple of years ago, when she was murderous and... okay, well, she's still murderous, but it's not towards the Guardians. And that's a good enough bridge to make them something more, something good (he used to mentally consider her a... sister-in-law, but now the thought makes him want to shoot someone who'd deserve it in the face, because he can't think about that kind of shit right now). She lands the Benatar on Titan's uneven soil about three hours after they all wake up, which is really nice, because Quill had absolutely no plans on how to get off this shit-heap of a planet.
Nebula's not a hugger, and Quill wouldn't dare try it, but there's a relief and understanding when she steps out into the oppressive, humid air and their eyes meet.
The kid — Little Pete — is sitting beside Mantis on a smoothed piece of metal that probably used to be a chunk of ship, one of his hands sitting limply against his thigh while Dr. Strange holds the other between his scarred fingers. He's quietly trying to assess the rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin skin of his wrist; he ends up having to move to Peter's neck, because the Iron Spider suit doesn't leave room for accurate readings. The spider kid is pliable all the while, blinking lazily every ten or fifteen seconds while the good doctor is adamant about putting his PhD to use — the PhD in actual doctoring, and the fake one he's got in the mystic arts. Quill hates to watch it, honestly, because — because part of it feels like it's on him. He freaked out, he ruined the plan, he lost control (Ego's face overlaps Thanos' — "I had to, I did what I had to, it broke my heart to put that tumor in her head-"), and now they're awake after two freaking years of nothing, and this kid is sitting here like a victim of wartime with no trace of self in his eyes.
"I've seen such a look before," Drax says, arms folded. "Many times, on warriors."
Peter makes a soft sound of acknowledgement in his throat. "... How long does it take to come out of it?"
Drax glances at him, more somber than he's been in Quill's company in a long time. "There is no measurement for such suffering." And isn't that just the reply Quill was hoping for? No, no it absolutely wasn't, and he thins his lips in helplessness at the scene. Mantis has obviously found some kind of emphatic kinship with the boy, and she leans in and listens to Strange's clinical ramblings with intense focus. Her hand ghosts Peter's, just grazing the skin, as if she's trying to keep him from fading further and further away.
Little Pete had saved her, when Thanos threw her. In the end it didn't matter for any of them, but that's not the point — the point is, the kid threw himself into danger every chance he got, to make sure none of them died. Crumbling into nothing doesn't change that. He had his heart and head in the game, and...
Quill closes his eyes, headache pulsing. "I'm sorry, guys. For freaking out, for fucking up, I just—"
"There's no point in apologizing," Strange cuts him off, not coldly, but not warmly, a sort of fact-of-matter reply that belies no blame. "It was what was supposed to happen. This was our sole victory, the only future that could have possibly worked."
"Okay, cool, but just because something's fated to happen doesn't mean it wasn't a stupid move," Quill mumbles.
Mantis says with cooled sorrow, "It was for Gamora."
Nebula's hands turn to fists at her sides and Quill swallows a lump in his throat, the name immediately raising goosebumps, sinking his stomach, burning his eyes. Dances on terraces and battles scattered across the galaxy like stardust and — and promises that Quill never got to fulfill, promises for things that never would be. The loss is another in a long list that leaves scar tissue, thick keloid nightmares, on his heart. He'll survive, like usual. But he won't like it.
Rough and worn, he mutters, "... Yeah."
And that's all that has to be said among them about that particular topic, right now. The next step is finding Thor, because it'll help them find Rocket and Groot, and then... he's not sure. But what he does know is that they've got a doctor and a kid who needs to get back to earth, pronto. And Quill is not about to ditch these two on some godforsaken planet.
"You two come with us, and we'll get you to Earth in no time," he finally says.
"That would be appreciated." Strange nods. "There's little I can do for the boy here."
"Can you tell what's wrong with him?" Mantis asks. Strange looks at Little Pete, pressing a hand to his forehead, to his temple. It's surprisingly gentle and careful; Quill doesn't remember doctors being nearly so kind, but to be fair, every doctor became 'the asshole who couldn't fix my mom' at some point. They might as well have grown fangs and claws.
Strange says at last, "I'm not completely sure, but if I had to fathom a guess... I imagine it's not something grounded in anything medical. The soul stone might have had something to do with it — it's the portion of the gauntlet that would have no doubt carried out the ebb and flow of our spirits through the astral plane."
"Oh," Quill quiets for a moment. "Oh, shit. Yeah. I remember..."
"You remember?" Strange's brows raise.
"Y-yeah. I remember a little bit. Like, being dragged back through... something. It was bright, too bright to really see anything. But there were a lot of voices, but I could make out the ones close to me — like, um. I heard Drax and Mantis. And then I heard... the kid... I dunno. Maybe?"
"I don't remember anything of the sort," Drax grumbles.
"It's probably because of the 50% of him that isn't stupid," Strange says, and Quill flatly ignores him to continue talking.
"Right. Anyway. I remember, I was..." He stops, squinting as if it'll all just come back into focus. And to his credit, the memory is a little less foggy. He can see Peter's wide eyes looking back at him in a veil of orange-tinted mist, but the teenager was staring at him like a deer in the headlights, his body refusing to crumble into thousands of blinding particles like everyone else's already had. Or maybe... Peter was refusing to let his body crumble. "I was reaching my hand out — for him... to try and get him to get a move on, I guess..."
He extends his hand toward the teenager's still figure, sitting in front of him. He doesn't move or react, predictably, but the picture in his head is enough.
"... He said it was hurting." Quill's voice is soft and sympathetic, as he looks at the dirt etching the lines of his palm. "He just kept getting further and further away, and it was so bright, and there were so many people pushing me back... I couldn't follow. I don't remember anything before or after, though. Just... that."
Strange nods as a contemplative silence falls over the star lord, and then looks to Mantis. "... Can you feel anything at all, when you touch him?"
Her hands wrap around Peter's palm, squeezing. "I have not felt anything in some time, now."
Quill has a feeling the kid's not coming back, either. Not like them.
But there's no point in dawdling, and Strange stands Little Pete up (the name's catching on) and helps walk him toward the ship with easy steps. It's weird to see something so shell-like move, shambling like a corpse from an old zombie flick — he watched Night of the Living Dead with his mom and couldn't sleep alone for a week straight, and now he feels that same uneasy clench in his chest, which isn't really fair to Pete. The ship is as they'd left it, funnily enough; Nebula hadn't changed a single thing about the set-up. Maybe it's because she needs so little to function, she doesn't bother upsetting the ecosystem. But Quill likes to think she wanted to keep it nice and familiar and cozy for them, when they came back.
"What now?" she says, glancing at him.
"First, I'm gonna make a few calls to earth," he says, buckling in for take-off. "Then you're gonna tell me everything that happened since we dusted."
Make no mistake, Stephen Strange did not enjoy being the hard-ass with a mission. He did not enjoy going toe-to-toe with Stark like some kind of alpha dogfight, because he knew that at the end of the day, they both had wanted the same thing, essentially: peace, safety, a world — a universe — that is defended and safeguarded from the worst of what was out there. Their ideas for doing so were different, mind, but their hearts were at the same board meeting. And make no mistake, though Strange was willing to lose comrades in this and choose the stone over Stark or the boy, it didn't mean his heart didn't ache for the kid who had been dragged into all of this. Looking at him now, lost somewhere he couldn't reach, was igniting every surgeon's nerve in his body. This wasn't something an operating table could fix, and the shaking hands digging through the Benatar's medical supplies could do little other than make sure he was physically alright.
Mantis can't do anything other than hover, and Strange doesn't mind the company, however odd the young woman was. The antenna on her head and her coal-black, full eyes were far less jarring to him than her awkward social mannerisms, and he spends some of his time in-between checking up on Peter Parker to talk to her about anything that came to mind: answers about earth, about his powers, cleared up confusions on where handshakes originated from. She's a good spirit who has her heart in the right place, so he can see why she gravitated towards Peter's side.
"I managed to get in contact with this place, uh — Wakanda?" Quill calls back from over his shoulder. "They're the only bozos down there with decent reception, go figure. They're playing a game of telephone with me and Stark right now, and I guess Groot and Rocket are safe, but they're already back in New York City with a bunch of those Avengers guys."
"Thor's Avengers," Mantis says cheerfully, as Stephen turns his attention back to Parker. It's a bit cold in the medical area, so he nudges his cloak until it gets the hint and leaves him, to curl around Peter's shoulders. As he sits near the unresponsive boy with little else to do but wait, he glances back to Mantis with interest he'd kept at bay until a more appropriate time.
"So you're an empath."
She looks at him, eyes dark and rounded with something close to innocence. It's not a common sight, around such weathered fighters, and her movements are slow and non-threatening as she considers his words. "That is correct... I feel feelings. I can sense things, sometimes."
"You knew when people were dying," he responds with kinder cadence.
"I suppose I did... there was a feeling of... despair. It was distant, but it grew and grew before..."
"I see."
"I wish I was able to do more. I was not very much use, when we were fighting Thanos. I felt helpless, with my abilities as they are. And now... Little Peter... I just sit and listen for his fear or pain, but nothing has happened since Titan. It feels like I should be able to do something, but I cannot."
Quill's head turns just slightly from the pilot's seat. Strange sees that he's listening, solemn. But the answer is easy, however, and Strange replies with little room for doubt, "Don't disparage yourself, Mantis. Your powers are both unique and important, even in times of war... Listening to someone's heart is one of the most powerful things anyone can do."
She smiles, before her eyes are drawn to his oddly marked hands. "May I?"
He offers his trembling palm upward without fear of baring anything he wouldn't otherwise, and she takes it, enveloping his knuckles in soft, warm hands; they've seen little manual labor, if any at all, and he supposes that makes sense. Her master, from what little she told him in the last few hours, sounds like someone no being should ever have to endure. Her antennas glow softly in the cool colors of the interior ship; in the corner of his eye, he sees Quill turning more fully to watch them. She says, eyes closed, "You are calm, but worried. And you are reminiscing... fondly of someone, but they're gone now. They inspire you to stay determined, though."
Strange smirks a little, the hand in his not calloused, and yet so familiar now. "I think she would have liked you a lot."
"I hope so! I would be happy to make new friends, like I have today. You and the Iron Man, and — and Little Peter."
Little Peter does not so much as twitch.
"If only there was a way to bring him back to himself," Drax says, chewing loudly on food rations; Strange is not a fan of the texture. Bit too chalky. The muscular warrior squints at Peter, then looks to Strange like he's perhaps found a solution to the whole problem. "Would he react if I suplexed him?"
"You are not suplexing anybody!" Quill blurts, standing up from his chair to wander over.
"I am just trying to help!" Drax complains, hands out in front of him. "He's very durable!"
"You're not suplexing a catatonic teenager," Strange says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The Ancient One is laughing at him from somewhere out there in the cosmos, he's almost sure of it. Meanwhile Quill nudges passed Drax with a roll of his eyes, turning his full attention on Parker's expressionless face, on his prone, iron-gloved hands. The annoyance left over from Drax fizzles as he studies the other Pete. Then he sighs through his nose, looking at the kid with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"These guys, am I right? I bet you're sick of this whole trip by now."
It takes Strange a moment to recognize Quill's efforts as he sits crouched in front of Parker, but he appreciates them.
"Hang in there, kid... It's gonna be a kinda long ride to Earth, and between you and me, space can get kind of boring the more you float through it. Especially on a road trip." He fidgets with a decently crafted pair of headphones he'd retrieved from the captain's chair, and the others fall silent as he slips them over Peter's boyish ears, Mr. Blue Sky muffled as it plays; it's a gentle sort of moment that Strange finds rare and difficult to ascribe feelings to, watching the small crew huddle with some semblance of hope and optimism for someone who may very well be completely lost to fate.
Perhaps he'd had too fast of a knee-jerk reaction to the Guardians of the Galaxy, after all.
Not an hour and a few Paul Anka songs later, Peter Parker is curled up in his seat, swaddled in a determined red cloak and, one could only hope, listening to the distant melody of earth and all he's left behind.