One day later, a single frustrated sigh pulled Quill from his thoughts. He looked up to see the elderly Gloria frowning at him, although her eyes spoke of a shared empathy. She could not imagine Peter's exact emotions since the original cancer diagnosis - how does it feel to lose a grandparent? Gloria had never known hers since she was adopted into a small family so many years ago. But she cared about her grandson even if they were not related by blood. That is why she crossed her arms and glared softly at him.

"Peter," she said in a whisper, "Go home. Eat, sleep… and for the love of god, please go take a shower."

Peter was about to protest but stopped. It would have been in vain. The man was not stupid. He knew that Gloria was right even if he did not want to admit it out loud. Peter was a mess; the old used-to-be space captain had not been taking care of himself.

Peter bent the whole of his frame, and his head dropped in shame. The back of his throat filled with emotion, while both arms hung limply along his legs. Suddenly, he was tearing up. His voice cracked as he said, "I just don't want to leave him. What if he gets worse while I'm gone."

"Then I'll be the one to see it," Gloria said like it was a fact of the world, nothing more than common knowledge, and it truly was.

Peter was so lame. Why could he not be stronger? Was he not a hero in the past, someone who should never allow himself to break? In the deepest part of his subconscious, somehow the matter of his grandfather dying was mentally killing him more than losing half of the world. He was fairly certain that losing Gamora shadowed over most of the guilt that he would have felt back then had he believed he was more in control… But Peter was selfish. Having suffered so many losses, perhaps it was easiest to simply block everything out. He had to make himself not care otherwise it would have killed him.

Peter was far too weak of a target. No wonder Gamora still disliked him to a degree. He was not nearly as confident in his anger toward the world as she was. After losing the old Gamora - not to mention his failure in winning over her past self… nor being able to persuade her to change her outlook on life - Peter was at a loss. But he still missed her. It did not matter that years had passed. Nothing could take away his care for Gamora. He knew that she had the capacity to love, but now she regained a resolve so sharp that she could kill anyone to obtain her goals. No, she had always had that.

Peter gave up sometimes, because at the end of the day he was not like Gamora. The human was quite faulty in his inability to follow through during his own emotional struggles. He had the capacity to give in. Gamora was an unstoppable force like a wrecking ball. She wrecked his heart and smashed it. But a part of him would always love her. Peter relented, and to her, he was probably weak for doing so.

Gloria had grown a tad stoney during the past couple of days. Her own resolve was hardening. She had faced loss before, and it was obvious that Peter was taking this way harder than he should have been. Jason was old, and god willing his suffering would end soon. The pair of Quills knew that the end was coming soon.

Peter did not begrudge her. The man knew what was going through Gloria's mind. She was honestly relieved beyond the irreparable ache now raging in her heart. She was ready for everything to be over, not for herself, but for her beloved. No one could deny that Jason was suffering. There was no plug to pull, merely a myriad of agonizing hours to wait. The duo found that they hated waiting.

Gloria's husband was growing weaker by the hour. The two both knew that. Throughout the last week, Jason's mind had been changing a lot, harrowingly so, and it was not for the better. Just the sight of the almost otherworldly shell of a man broke their hearts. It was like he was in an alternate universe: he was not the person they originally loved. Yet he actually was, and they still cared about him. But damn did it hurt. The man was becoming more distracted, more infantile. The white haired man had already forgotten who they were , and it was only a question of time when it came to how long he had left. They just wanted what was best for him. Gloria just wanted what was best for Peter.

"You shouldn't keep doing this to yourself," she told him, "Jason wouldn't want you living like this. He told me how you dealt with losing your mother. I can only imagine what you must be going through. But if you keep worrying like this… you may end up like him."

Gloria came to rest a single hand on his shoulder. It was a withered but gorgeous hand that gripped onto the fabric of his jacket almost like a lifeline. A square lone diamond sat on one finger.

"Peter, I've never seen you not eat, yet you've barely had anything in two days. You never drink, and you certainly haven't been showering, especially in the last few days."

"But- "

Gloria shushed him.

"No buts, mister. Please go home. If not for me, then for him."

Peter gave his grandfather a long stare. The look was silent and longing. The pair stood in variable silence, the only other noise that sounded within his senses was the steady beeping of a heart rate monitor. The soulless echo seemed to almost overshadow the series of heavier breaths that came from his grandfather. The man lay absolutely exhausted on the white sheets. He appeared so small in that semi-hard bed, oh so utterly frail.

Peter's frown deepened toward the ground into a tightly wound and tense curve. The man's teeth grit in frustration. They rubbed each other uncomfortably, uncharacteristically ground together at the quickly overwhelming feeling of complete helplessness taking over his thoughts. It made his actions erratic; Peter had never been the best at handling stress. The brunette could only pray that his grandpa was having good dreams as he lay there.

"Gramps…" The whisper came out broken, practically defeated. He was speaking to himself and no one at the same time. Gloria understood this. She gave a watery smile.

"It'll be okay," she said, "We have each other no matter what happens."

His voice, as deep as it was, spoke like a petulant teenager. It edged with a tone of defiance but he understood Gloria was right. Then, he broke down.

"I know. It just sucks."

Peter went on to cry one last time that day. When there were finally no more tears left to shed, Peter hugged Gloria. His well was dry, fully spent, and he felt totally exhausted. Thanking her sincerely, he picked up his worn out duffel bag and walked sullenly out the door. He let the door close with a tiny click behind him. For a long moment, he simply stood there. He was once again alone with his thoughts.

Do I even have my keys? He thought almost drunkenly.

Peter was not sure what time he would make it home… Could he even make it home? Really, what was stopping him from driving that beat up rusted crapper of a truck of his straight off the road into a ditch? The answer, albeit foolish, was nothing. The best thing he had was people who cared about him.

Peter trudged down the bright white hallway, noting how the place looked eerily positive. The iridescent lighting made it look as cheerful as it was depressing - a heavy dash of possible mental loonacy plagued any who managed to stay too long within the medical facility's halls.

Peter was going insane being holed up in such a place. This was not heaven, yet it was a place that people came to die. The building was almost blinding with its pure grandeur of stark bleakness. The overly plain and empty walls brought zero comfort to him; the pair of sneakers that he wore, an off-white old and battered set of converses, plodded along a series of winding square gray and white tiles.

Any other day, Peter would find himself skipping left and right between the haphazard pattern, a somewhat hum on his lips. The world was a wonder, after all. He would try to find the good in anything and anyone... That was usually Peter's moto.

He felt accomplished when he made it to the elevator. So far so good. Thankfully his feet were seeming to work right. He almost punched the button with his finger before waiting impatiently for the lift to arrive. After a few moments the door in front of him slid open. Peter entered the elevator, awkwardly messing with the strap that hung over his shoulder. He gripped at the tightly wound fabric. He stared aimlessly around him. When the door opened he was grateful.

Walking in a more brisk way, Peter forced what felt like an internally gut wrenching smile - be happy, his thoughts pointedly reminded - as he neared the front desk. He instantly wished the woman a well-meant goodbye for the day, although he did not wait for a response from her. Then he was out the door.

Peter could not help it. The urge to run filled him as soon as he escaped the hospital. It felt like was running straight to his truck with his feet kicking up parking lot dust. It was desperate, however the male's beeline stayed careful. Thankfully his rational side had taken the reins: it'd be embarrassing to be the one asshole to fall and break a bone in a hospital parking deck. And so he slowed down, letting out a heavy sigh once he made it to his truck.

The vehicle was a large burgundy old 2003 Ford truck, complete with a moderately sized pair of fuzzy black-and-white dice hanging behind the rearview mirror. It had a semi-rusted paint job and one tail light out; the gear shift had a perpetual stickiness that never failed to glitch its mechanism. A small dancing sombrero wearing solar powered cactus sat in the far left corner. It waved at him, jiggling blissfully, as he opened the door. Stupid cactus. Peter was suddenly jealous of the little cartoon cacti.

Lucky bastard gets a sombrero. I want a sombrero.

With that thought, he drew in a mighty breath. Peter allowed his outstretched hands to crook around the awaiting steering wheel. The digits fidgeted there awkwardly for a minute. The chipped leather was his friend. He idly gripped at the wheel. He looked uncomfortable. His face drew into a look of defeat. He was at a loss, as he slowly laid his forehead onto the steering wheel. His hands shook then tightened. Eventually, they slacked. He sighed once more.

Nothing could bring him peace. That was for certain. A big part of him had to wonder when his friends would be getting there. He needed them so badly. When would they arrive? He was a grown ass adult who needed them. He needed his family.

Peter wanted to be near the people he cared about the most. They were the ones he would gladly die for. He longed for the old days of being a leader of the Guardians. It filled the absent lulls that liked to play with his mind on some days. He missed the adventures, their physical presence. It was insistently bothering him with each passing day, while the growing ache left by his ailing grandfather was begging to be filled with their love. He missed getting to see their laughter.

He jammed his key into the ignition and cranked his truck with the slightest laugh.

God, he sounded like Air Supply.

It took about an hour after receiving her text response from Peter for Drax and Mantis' to finally appear. When the duo came waltzing up to Nebula, the pair showed up at their base with little fanfare but they were laughing together all of the way. They were happy and smiling; the cyborg felt her metallic bones start to stiffen.

Though she was not even close to being like them in anatomy, Nebula still had a heart. She had the capacity to feel, however subdued said emotions had been for years. And right now she felt like the bearer of bad news. Her tone became colder as she prepared herself for what she was about to tell them. She sauntered toward them, forcing a commanding swagger in her every step.

"Mantis. Drax." She called out their names to them but only that. It really was all she could say at that moment. Anything else felt harder.

Annoyance ebbed at her skull. A ball of upset was frustratingly blocking her airwaves, and that was what she was annoyed at. Where had her strength gone?

She came to find that, on rare occasions, she tended to miss the past Nebula. Today was one of those days. She thought back on the days when she gave zero shit about the plights of others; life was arguably simpler back then.

Living was easy when you told yourself you were comfortable with being on your own. You had no one to force yourself into giving portions of yourself to. There were no extra social obligations… but in reality you stayed very lonely. It was nice having people to talk to. Except for now.

"I have something to say."

Nebula's words came out stiff and moderately cold as they neared her. The woman shot a curt look between the two of them. The pair wore varying expressions. Mantis appeared confused, while Drax was a tad perplexed but otherwise indifferent. Mantis instantly noticed Nebula's demeanor. She was the first to respond.

"What is it?" Her voice was soft and breathy like usual.

Nebula swallowed.

"It's about Peter."