All characters belong to Disney, Marvel, and most importantly, to their creators: Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and dozens of other immensely talented individuals.

1. Peter Quill: About My Life

Alien leather was barely acceptable for the occasion, and he was wearing a lot of it. Meanwhile, the jet boots were hardly inconspicuous, but the need to make a quick and unorthodox exit was always a possibility in his life. And so, he stood solemnly in jet boots and alien leather, feeling wholly inadequate.

At least there was no blaster hanging from his waist.

Peter Quill had not been to St. Charles, Missouri in 35 years; though, in that time, he had only aged 30 years. He closed his eyes for a moment as a shiver ran down his spine, remembering the uniquely horrible sensation of disintegration, and the look of horror on the face of Tony Stark. The look that would be the last thing he saw before five years were expunged from his life.

Tony Stark. The man whose funeral he had attended only two hours ago. A permanent casualty of Peter's folly. Opening his eyes, Peter exhaled deeply and his gaze dropped in shame. He stared, as though transfixed, at the grass under his feet. He had never fully appreciated the beauty of grass, or nature in general, quite so much as he had in the past few days. Stark would never appreciate it again. Nor would many others. Because of his failures.

Still, the vibrant green of the grass was a familiar, welcoming colour. He remembered, on separate occasions, lying in it with the two most important people in his world. One who's departure destroyed him, the other who's arrival saved him.

With them in in mind, Peter was filled with resolve, and he raised his head once more, and put one foot in front of the other.

The cemetery was remarkable unchanged from his youth; weaving between headstones young and old, pristine and decayed, he remembered running the same paths as a child. Time may have passed, but death remained, eternal and inflexible. Peter had changed, and so had St. Charles. But here, in this place, the only thing that changed were the names etched into each piece of granite.

He walked, as though in a trance, his feet taking him exactly where he needed to go even despite the fact he'd never visited this exact spot before. Taking him where he needed to be, and to whom he needed to see.

Peter saw, mere feet away from him, the inscription of her name. He stopped in place, and tried to moderate his suddenly rapid breathing. Thirty years. He had delayed this inevitable reunion for thirty years. Reaching into his pocket, he wrapped his fist gently around the precious piece of paper, and remembered the words that made him keep moving forward.

"You are the light of my life. My precious son. My little Star-Lord."

And so, after thirty years, Peter was at last reunited with his Meredith.

"Hi, Mom." he whispered.

Opening his mouth as though to continue, Peter closed it again when, for perhaps the first time in his life, words failed him. Instead he simply stared at the headstone; granite, like most of the others in the cemetery. A greyish black, like most of the others. Average sized and square, like most of the others.

It didn't reflect her beauty, her humour, her warmth. Had Peter been able to decide, it would have stood taller than any other headstone. Then again, had Peter been able to decide, there would be no headstone, and he would instead have a mother.

Now, more than ever, he needed a mother. To hold him in her arms. To forgive him for his selfish mistakes.

A tear escaped him. And then another, and another. For his mother. For Gamora. For all those he had failed on Titan.

Carefully, gently, he lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged on the soft grass; he wiped away the tears on his sleeve, and looked at the headstone once again, glad at least to appreciate the wholly appropriate inscription.

Meredith Quill

1961-1988

Beloved Mother, Daughter, and Sister.

She filled the world with music and laughter.

"It's been a long time," Peter croaked, finally able to find words. "And I should have been here sooner."

He leaned forward slightly, and placed his hand delicately on the headstone, his finger slowly tracing the word 'Mother' before he leant back. Placing both hands flat on the ground, the grass popping up between his fingers.

"You really did fill the world with music and laughter," he said, smiling for the first time since crossing the threshold into the vast cemetery. "And you filled my life with it."

Another tear fell, and he felt it trickle down his cheek slowly. But his smile broadened, and his next words were said wholeheartedly.

"And I couldn't have asked for a better mother."

It was difficult to tear his eyes away from the seemingly insignificant headstone, but he did so, looking over his shoulder and seeing, in the distance, the familiar shape of The Milano. It was sure to be attracting attention, and perhaps even a gathering crowd.

He thought of those onboard, his found family.

Rocket, self-destructive and self-loathing, with whom he had so much in common. Groot, juvenile and petulant, with whom his younger self had had so much in common. Drax, whose sadness and humour had taught him so much about coping. Mantis, whose empathy inspired him every day. Nebula, who he was determined to help for someone who meant everything to him.

Even Thor, the God of Thunder who had recently joined their sundry crew of misfits, whose pain was so palpable that Peter couldn't help but to empathise with him.

Beyond The Milano, he observed the deep blue of the sky, and thought of Yondu. A space pirate, his kidnapper, his father. He thought of how his mother had shaped the first eight years of his life, and Yondu had shaped the next fifteen.

And then, looking down at the green blades of grass between his fingers, he thought of Gamora. Gamora, who had saved him. Gamora, with whom he had once lay on the grass and listened to music with. Music handed down to him from his mother.

He thought of all these people. He thought of all the places he had visited, and of all the monumental events that had taken place in his life. He thought of the good and the bad, of those he had loved and those he had hated.

And suddenly, while looking at his mother's name carved into granite, he knew what else to say.

"Mom. Let me tell you about my life."