(Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who favorited and followed this story! Here's the long-awaited next chapter.)
Every step was an agony. Every time he lifted one foot off the ground, he was sure that this would be the time that his throbbing legs would give way and send him sprawling to the pavement, gasping for breath and praying for an end to it all.
Up ahead, his teammates raced toward their objective with greater stamina than his fragile half-Terran body possessed. If he called out, would they come back for him, or abandon him to his fate?
Rocket, who was perched high on Groot's shoulder, looked back and saw his lagging comrade. "Hey, Pete, hurry up! We're only half a klick from the finish line!"
Peter raised his head and saw the balloon arch up ahead. All around were cheery signs in half a dozen languages that all said variations on YOU CAN DO IT!
No, I can't, he thought. Ask me to do a personal appearance at a charity walk, fine. They didn't tell me I'd have to walk the whole thirty-five klicks!
He'd thought it would be a five-minute hand-wave, not six hours in the hot sun pounding the pavement! If he'd known, he never would have agreed to do the whole thing. How stupid would it be to survive two assassination attempts and die from taking a flarking walk?
A cluster of young girls ran past him, long-legged and long-haired and beautiful. He would have enjoyed the sight if he hadn't been so tired and sore. All he could do was plod on and hope he made it to the finish line soon, before his legs gave out and he fell in an undignified heap.
A few minutes later, and no closer to the end, he decided that he didn't care what kind of spectacle he presented, he just wanted this over now!
"Come on, legs," he said out loud. "Just a few more steps. Then you can have the rest of the day off. Come oooooon!"
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the huge FINISH banner appeared in front of him. Just a little further . . . just a few more meters . . .
He stumbled through the balloon arch, and a pretty pink-skinned girl gave him a high five while her green-skinned companion dropped some kind of ribbon around his neck. Peter looked down and saw a medal of shiny foil resting against his chest.
Yay, I won the gold medal. Wait, it's not gold. Silver? Platinum? Adamantium? What's this supposed to be?
He never stopped; if he stopped even for a second, he'd never get started again. This philosophy had worked for the last ten kilometers, and he wasn't giving up on it anytime soon. He plodded up the hill (why was there a hill?) and joined his friends, who were lounging around eating ice cream.
"Let's go," he said. "I need, in order, a hot shower, some food, a drink, and twelve hours of sleep. That last one is not optional."
"What the hell's wrong with you?" Rocket asked him.
"Other than the fact that I just walked halfway across the planet?"
"Aw, stop bein' a big baby! Next you'll be wantin' us to carry you home!"
"Would you like me to carry you?" Drax asked, in all seriousness.
Peter briefly considered the offer, then shook his head. "Nah, it's not that far. Just don't expect anything from me the rest of the day. I am done."
The shower felt good, so good that he lingered under the warm water as long as his legs would hold him. He washed all the day's grit and grime off his body and then just stood there, letting the water wash over him. The warmth helped to un-knot aching muscles and relax his tired body. It was only reluctantly that he shut off the water and then stepped out of the shower stall, nearly tripping on the bath mat.
Rocket was waiting outside the door, towel in hand. "Bout time. You left some hot water, I hope?"
"It all recycles. We've been living off the same water for months now. Haven't you noticed?"
"You mean . . ." Rocket looked at him askance. "That is disgusting! We're takin' on fresh water the first chance I get!" He shoved his way into the bathroom, but couldn't resist one parting shot over his shoulder. "Recycling the water! Really!" Then he slammed the door.
Peter wondered if he should maybe have told the raccoon about the ship's bivalve recycling system, which separated the drinking supply from that used for washing and flushing, but he decided it was just as well. Besides, he needed sleep now.
Peter didn't bother setting his alarm that night, relishing the opportunity to sleep in. The pressure of his bladder woke him around 0730, and he cautiously rolled over and tried to set his feet on the deck.
So far, so good. Then he made the mistake of standing all the way up.
It was as if someone (Thor, maybe?) had taken a massive hammer and slammed it into the base of his spine. His calves pulled on his thighs, which pulled on his hips, which pulled on his back. His shoulders were tight as well, making it hard to lift his arms.
But I was just walking! How could I hurt this much from just walking?
His bladder wouldn't wait, so he hobbled as carefully as he could to the bathroom, which was mercifully free, and relieved himself, leaning against the wash basin and gritting his teeth. Standing was hard, but having to lower himself onto the seat would have been impossible. He finished as quickly as he could, shuffled to the sink to wash his hands, and then faced a dilemma: should he attempt to go get himself breakfast, or just go back to bed and not move for the rest of the day?
Bed was tempting, but so was the smell of coffee from the galley. So tired . . . but so hungry, too . . .
Maybe he could have breakfast in bed! Yeah, that was it! Surely someone would take pity on him and bring him a tray, if he asked nicely. He went back to his room and hit the button on the intercom.
"Hey, guys, any chance of one of you bringing me some breakfast? I'm kinda . . . not in any shape to walk around today."
No answer. He waited a few minutes and tried again.
"Please? I'll do all of your chores for a week, as soon as I'm able to do anything. I'm begging here!"
Still nothing.
"Hello? Guys? What's up with the silent treatment?" It was beginning to look like Peter would have to get his own breakfast, no matter how he was feeling.
And that meant going downstairs.
Slowly, and extremely painfully, he made his way down the ladder, clinging tightly to the metal rungs because if he fell, even from only a few feet up, he'd never be able to get up again. Lying on the floor in pain (well, in more pain) and calling for help was not on his agenda of things to do today.
Eventually he reached the bottom, gingerly setting his feet on the deck and trying not to put too much weight on them. He limped into the kitchen, where he found a plate of food and a note:
Peter,
We got a call about a delivery early this morning. It's only fifty klicks away, so we borrowed ground transport. Since you were not feeling well, we opted to go without you. We should be back in a few hours. We saved you some breakfast. See you soon.
Gm, R, Gt and D
So he was alone. Great. At least they'd left him some food. And it was still fairly warm, which meant they hadn't left all that long ago. And since he hadn't actually eaten anything before falling into bed last night, he was doubly hungry. He devoured the food quickly and then wondered what to do next. The thought of having to go back up the ladder left him groaning in anticipated agony, and he laid his head down on the table and simply went to sleep right there.
He woke suddenly a short time later. There it was again-that noise that could only be the creak of the door. "Guys? That you?"
There was no answer.
"Hello? You're not still mad at me, are you?"
The silence persisted.
"Okay, whatever. I'm going back to bed. Um, thanks for the food. I'll call if I need anything."
He started for the ladder, groaning inwardly at the thought of having to fight gravity again, when there was the tone of an incoming message.
Might be them, he thought. Maybe they're not back after all.
He pressed the button. "What's up?"
A familiar blue face filled the screen. "Oh, hey, Pete. I was gonna leave a message. Didn't think you'd be there."
"Oh, I'm not goin' anywhere today."
"What's the matter? You sick?"
"No, I . . . I did a long charity walk yesterday, and now it hurts to move."
If he was expecting sympathy, he should have looked elsewhere. "You did what? What kinda dumbass move is that? Half the galaxy's tryin' ta kill ya, and you sign up for a charity walk? Whyn't ya just slap a damn target on yer face?"
"I didn't know we'd have to do the whole thing! I thought it would be just a brief public appearance, you know, to bolster our image."
"Keep it up and yer next 'public appearance' is gonna be at yer own funeral!"
"Okay, okay. I've learned my lesson. I won't do it again."
"Good, cause I can't save yer ass every time. That's why I called. There's another assassin on his way to you, so get outta there while ya still can."
Peter sighed. "I just told you, I can't!"
"Ain't no such thing as can't! Take off before he finds ya!"
"I can't. I mean, I really can't. The rest of the team is off on a mission, and they won't be back for a while."
Yondu looked incredulous. "They left you alone?"
"I would've been a liability."
"An' comin' back an' findin' yer dead body wouldn't be? I'm gonna have words with that bunch one o' these days. Some help they are."
"I'll be fine. I've got my-" Wait, no, he didn't. His favorite weapon was in his room, in the locked drawer under the bunk. "Well, I'll manage."
"The hell you will. Not in the state yer in now. I'm on my way." And then Yondu clicked off without so much as a goodbye.
"Yeah, whatever." Peter shrugged and started back toward the ladder . . . only to hear that creak again. He went to a panel and typed in the access code for the computer system. When it came online, he typed an inquiry: LIFE FORMS ON BOARD AT PRESENT?
Working . . . And that infuriating whirly icon that went round and round and never stopped.
There was a beep, and the whirly thing was gone. Two life forms aboard at present. One unknown.
Okay. So he was alone on the ship with an assassin, who knew he was here alone and knew that he knew that he/she/it was here. Where would he/she-screw gender correctness; Peter was calling him "he" until he was proven otherwise-be hiding?
Where would I be most vulnerable?
His own room. The one place he would think would be secure.
"Oh, I'm coming for you now," he said, and started up the ladder. Two steps up, his foot slipped, and he crashed down to the floor and blacked out.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who could fly . . .
"Woo hoo!" Peter is hovering three meters in the air, and he finds he's really getting the hang of these jet boots. They are the most awesome thing in the universe! Even though they have to be stuffed with paper to keep them from falling off, and he still hasn't mastered the art of cornering yet. But look at him! He can fly!
"All right, that's enough," Yondu calls up to him. "Time to come down now, Pete."
"Aw! Five more minutes!"
"You can practice some more tomorrow. Right now we gotta go or we'll miss dinner. You remember how to get down, doncha?"
"I think so." He doesn't, and has a moment of panic when he floats up instead of down.
Yondu laughs. "Tap yer heels together!"
"Like Dorothy?"
"Who the hell's Dorothy?"
"Never mind."
"Once to slow, twice to stop. Don't stop completely till yer closer ta the deck. Nice an' easy, now."
Peter taps the heels of the boots together once, and feels himself descending slowly, a few centimeters at a time. At this rate he won't get down till tomorrow morning. In his haste, he taps his heels twice . . . and drops like a stone.
"Shit!" Yondu moves quickly to catch the boy before he hits the deck. "What'd I just tell you? Wait till you're closer to the ground!"
"I'm sorry! I thought I could speed it up a bit."
"Yer gonna get yerself killed one 'a these days, brat. Now get them boots off and go wash up."
"Okay." He pulls the boots off one by one, and sets them in the bottom of the open locker next to him. Then he pads across the room in his stocking feet. Just short of the doorway, he stops and turns back. "Thanks."
"Just don't do it again."
Peter came to slowly, confused for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling, until he remembered where he was and what was going on. He didn't know how long he was out; it could have been minutes or hours.
At least there wasn't a weapon pointed at his face.
Yet.
He stood up slowly, feeling a sick thump in his head, which must have struck the floor pretty hard, and his lower back. Great. As if he wasn't in enough pain already. But he had to get up that ladder. He knew what he had to do now.
Get the boots, he thought. If I can't stand to put my feet on the floor, then all I have to do is find a way to not have to put my feet on the floor. And hope that he doesn't have jet boots too.
He climbed up the ladder, one slow, painful rung at a time. Halfway up, he started to feel dizzy, and he stopped and took a few deep breaths until the dizziness went away.
If I don't die in the next five minutes, he thought, I'm gonna have to get checked out at a hospital. Hope I don't have a concussion.
He made it to the top without further incident, and limped to his room, all the while checking for anything out of place. Nope, nothing wrong here. Maybe he wasn't on this level. Or he'd been, but had moved on, picking up after himself so that Peter would never know he'd been there.
Stop overthinking this, he told himself. Just stay alert.
The boots were right under his bed where he'd left them. He knew they'd work because he cleaned and tested them every three days, just to be safe. The last time he'd used them had been two days ago.
The problem, though, would be getting them on his poor abused feet. They were definitely sore, and he thought they might even have swollen a bit from all the pounding they had taken.
You don't have a choice. It's literally do or die.
Best to get it done and over with all at once. He shoved his left foot into the boot, feeling a stab of pain up his leg, but he fought his way through it until his foot was all the way in. Now for the right foot.
His right foot was just a little bit bigger than his left, and that miniscule variance was the difference between a twinge of discomfort and the agony of his poor abused toes being squeezed to death. How would he ever stand up like this?
In a few minutes, he told himself, you won't have to stand up at all. No weight on those little piggies. Crap, I hope my toenails don't turn black.
He gingerly laced the boots up, tight enough so they wouldn't slip off in mid-air but loose enough so that they weren't crushing his feet. Then he stood up, groaning, and looked around cautiously before exiting the room.
The controls for the gravity generator were in the utility closet off engineering, which meant he had to go downstairs again. He could just cheat and use the boots, but in case the assassin was watching, he didn't want to give away his advantage just yet. He'd just have to hold on tight and go as slowly as possible.
There were three switches, one for each level of the ship. He chose to shut them down in reverse order. "Three . . . two . . . one!"
When he started floating upwards, he remembered the jets and activated them with a quick tap. The intruder would probably have floated up to the top level by now, but Peter thought it best to check each one, just in case.
Nothing on the engineering level. He floated up through the hatch and checked the main living quarters. Nope, nothing there either. That meant that he had to be at the top, probably clinging on for dear life to the supports in the-
Oh, dear God.
"He's in the cockpit!" Peter put on an extra burst of speed, feeling the acceleration all the way up his spine. Yep, a hospital trip was definitely in his future. If he survived this.
Don't think like that. I'll find him, and everything will be fine.
He heard the ping of an incoming message, but ignored it. Whoever it was would call back. He'd check the messages as soon as this was all over.
Seconds later, Gamora's voice filled the ship: "Peter, are you there? Are you still sleeping? We've finished the job and we're on our way back. Rocket said something about dumping the waste-water tank and refilling it with fresh water, so as soon as we've secured enough, we'll be coming back to the ship. I hope you've at least eaten something. See you soon."
The tank! If he could lure the assassin into the tank . . . wait, no, that wouldn't work. They'd had to install a locking mechanism after Groot, while still tiny, had accidentally fallen in and nearly drowned. But if he could disable it somehow, and then lure him into the tank and flush it out . . . yeah, that would do it! He floated all the way down and then looked up.
"Hey!" he called up through the open hatch. "I'm down here! Come and get me!"
The tank release was on the other side of the deck; all he had to do was wait for the assassin to come to him, trick him into entering the tank, and then dump it. It was only a two-and-a-half meter fall, unlikely to cause serious injury, but hopefully it would slow him down enough for Peter to lock down the ship so he couldn't get back in. The others could deal with him when they arrived.
What was taking so long? Didn't this guy want to get him or not? Peter looked up, and saw nothing. Then he realized that the assassin didn't have jet boots, and he was stuck way up at the top of the ship. He'd have to turn the gravity back on in order to get the guy down here.
He flew across the deck to the gravity controls, and turned them back on, one deck at a time. Top one first. He heard a thud as the assassin's body hit the floor. He reached for the middle-deck controls and switched them on. Another thump. Finally he took a deep breath and flipped the switch for the lower deck. Then he looked up.
The body that fell through the open hatch was smaller than he was expecting, but you couldn't always judge by size. Some of the toughest men Peter had ever met were only a meter and a half tall. He didn't stick around to get a good look, but took off running.
"This way!" He ran to the waste-water tank, skirted around it to the other side, and found the controls for the lock and turned them off. Now all he had to do was wait.
He didn't have to wait long. Running footsteps grew louder, and then the small form appeared in the doorway.
"Yeah, c'mon!" Peter taunted him. "I'm right here, fart-face!"
The assassin took two quick steps forward . . . and fell right into the open tank. Peter wasn't sure if he could swim or not, but since he wouldn't be in there long enough to drown, he didn't feel too bad. He pressed the huge green button marked WASTE WATER RELEASE.
There was a rumble and a roar, and the water level dropped sharply. There was a high-pitched scream and then a gurgle as the assassin was dragged under and out of the ship. Peter watched the water flow out of the tank, and then he locked it down again, until the others came back with fresh water. He went upstairs and sealed all the hatches so the guy couldn't get back in.
The chirp of an incoming message. Probably the others on their way back. Peter answered it this time. "Yeah?"
"Hey, Pete," Yondu said. "Jes' wanted ya to know that ya don't haveta worry 'bout that guy no more. We got him."
"What?"
"Nabbed him before he made planetfall. Called the Nova Corps to come pick him up, but he killed hisself with some kinda poison capsule 'fore they got here. Anyway, yer safe now. Yer friends get back yet?"
"Um . . . you know what, I hear them right now. I'll call you back," he said, and cut the signal. Then he unsealed the main hatch and ran outside.
Lying stunned in a huge puddle of water was . . . a kid. Couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old. He sat up and shook water out of his oversized ears.
"Hey," Peter said. "I'm-I'm really sorry, you know? I thought you were someone else."
The kid looked up at him. "That," he said, "was awesome! Can I do it again?"
"You're not mad?"
"I shouldn't 'a snuck on board, but I really wanted a picture. Didn't get one yesterday."
Peter bent down and helped him up. "Come inside and get dried off. What's your name?"
"Jerl."
"Hi, Jerl. I'm-well, you know who I am. You want some cookies?"
When the other Guardians returned, they found Peter sitting at the galley table with a small boy wearing one of Peter's favorite shirts, which covered the boy's whole body. "Hey, guys," Peter said. "Meet my new friend Jerl. He just dropped by for a photo."
Rocket looked down at the table and a snarl creased his muzzle. "My cookies!"
"You don't mind sharing, do you? Especially with our adoring public."
"You bet I mind! Those are my cookies! I paid for 'em with-"
Groot wrapped a long branch around him. "I am Groot!"
"But he can't just-"
"I am Groot!"
"All right, all right! But you're buyin' me more!" He sat down at the table and pulled the box over to his side protectively.
"Actually, Rocket, you'll be glad to know that I dumped the old waste-water like you asked. We can refill the secondary tank whenever you're ready."
"Great. Thanks. Wait-secondary tank?"
"Yeah, I meant to tell you. There are two water tanks. One for drinking and cooking, the other for washing and flushing. So we're not drinking something somebody else, um . . . you know."
The raccoon slapped a palm against his forehead. "Now you tell me!"
They had such a good time hanging out with Jerl that Peter decided not to tell his friends about the failed assassination attempt. It was a mistake that would come back to haunt him later.