Peter floats.
It is both familiar and foreign all at once — the sensation of drifting through an empty darkness is not new, not after Thanos killed him and so many others, but this isn't the soul world. This isn't him endlessly floating through all of his sins and mistakes, and he isn't listening to some imaginary Ben's angry admonishments, or feeling pulled to pieces in all directions. There isn't any suffering. There isn't any fear. There aren't any doubts. He doesn't have to think of all the places he went wrong as Spider-Man, or the places he went wrong as Peter Parker, and there are no souls crying out for peace or safety or their loved ones...
But he also eventually drifts back to the surface. Towards consciousness.
And it isn't as peaceful. With a soft groan his eyelids flutter partly open, the lights above feeling ten times brighter than they probably are. His whole body aches something fierce; it's a sensation that starts at his toes and goes all the way to the top of his head, with an additional throbbing in his abused ribs and stiffened shoulder. He feels the shape and warmth of a familiar petite hand on his just as he moans, and his weak fingertips curl around the palm instinctively.
"Peter, baby, I've got you," May's voice drifts. "Does it hurt? Are you in pain? Tony, can't we put more in the drip?"
"Sorry, May, the kid burns right through it."
"No, no, m'okay," he mutters, as his vision adjusts to the blurry figures in the room. Tony's standing at the foot of his medical bed with his arm in a sling, face peppered with little cuts and bruises. Meanwhile, Aunt May's got his hand in a tight grip as she sits in the chair next to him, her eyes glistening with relieved tears — it occurs to him, in his foggy state of mind, that he hasn't spoken to her in years. Years. And now she's staring at him like she's afraid he'll just evaporate into nothing again. The thought of it makes his own eyes burn, and he smiles at her, trying to ease her fears. "Hey May, I'm here."
It hurts a little when she leans in and grabs him into a hug, even if she's being so gentle; Peter supposes it couldn't have been a very long time since he had initially passed out to begin with, since his arms are littered with half-healed cuts from the shrapnel Ebony Maw had shot at him. He supposes that must've also been the cause of the tightness and stinging he felt on the left side of his head, too. The pain is worth it, though, to be able to hug May back, to be able to use his arms and press his face against her shoulder, truly. She sobs once and breaks his heart, and he strokes the buttons of her spine with the hand that's currently lacking an IV.
"It's okay," he whispers. "I'm okay. I love you, May."
"I love you, too. I love you so much." He lifts his face to look at Mr. Stark from over her shoulder, as the hero stands close by with relief in his eyes. Peter can't help but smile at him, though it echoes something still broken — still not at all mended, not when he thinks of his time drifting among the souls, or the desperate smile on Gamora's face. She'd said she loved him, too; if it wasn't for her... he'd be... The thought clouds his expression, and Tony furrows his brow worriedly at the misery etched there.
"Kid?"
Peter shakes his head minutely as he tries to reign his emotions in, and May pulls back. "Oh, god, I'm not hurting you, am I? Peter?"
"No, no, I'm — I'm fine," he says, sniffling and feeling all but five.
She scratches at the back of his head with her nails, a gesture she's always done for him — especially when he was sick or sad, something that reminded him instantly of childhood and the good and bad that came with it, in that wistful, nostalgic way. "You should rest a little more. Keep your strength building up, okay? You've got a lot to catch up on, you know."
"I know," he rasps, and she reaches for a glass of water with a straw so that he can drink before he can even so much as wave it off. That's mom-types for you — always one step ahead. A smile finally does reach his eyes at the thought, and he quietly drinks under the watchful eyes of Mr. Stark and May. He scoffs and rubs at his eye, and even leaning back into his pillow feels like a gigantic effort. "... Man, it's been a crazy few weeks, huh? Took me long enough, I bet."
May and Mr. Stark look at each other, frowning.
"Pete," Tony says, "You came back to earth nearly six months ago."
Mr. Stark had a lot to deal with — um. Mainly the big gaping holes and broken security systems and busted pipes and — You know. Just a lot. But he had promised to return later once construction was back under way and they were all done shoveling alien corpses and debris off the lawn where Happy liked to golf on the weekends. And he also promised to come with company, and that would be when Peter was a little more rested; Peter wanted to argue that he spent a little too long being rested, and that no, he didn't need a therapist (maybe he did), and no, he was going to be fine (maybe he wasn't), but Tony was usually out the door before the teenager could properly complain.
May almost never left his side that day, save to pee and all that fun stuff. He tries not to think of the fact that Avengers like Steve Rogers — one of his idols in childhood — took him to the bathroom a lot. He tries not to think of how May had to work with a feeding tube, one that was still in his side even at this very moment, the same one Bruce explained the removal procedures for. He's lost a little weight, and some muscle, too, and everything about him feels like he's a toddler learning how to walk. Maybe that's the injuries talking, but it's no less frustrating to find your body only to realize you're still kind of busted up; it's not a huge deal, because ultimately he'll be healed within a few days at the least, but it still drives him a little crazy.
It's not until the afternoon he woke up that people are finally allowed to pop in, once he's not falling asleep every other minute. Peter Quill pokes his head in, knocking on the backside of his door so he's not completely surprising the boy in the bed. The Guardian looks like he hasn't slept in a week. Maybe months, now that Peter knows just how long it's been since they rode home together on the Benatar. Rocket swiftly bypasses his captain, forgoing any politeness as he plops down on the bench near the window; it's a nice view. "Hey kid. Sorry your room was blown up."
"Rocket," Quill huffs, and the raccoon just shrugs with his hands in the air.
"What?! It was a nice thing to say, wasn't it? Drax?"
"I think it was nice, yes," the man mutters, and Quill shoots them a glare where they've both decided to keep the nice view at the window company. Groot lumbers in a moment later, looking curiously at Peter as if he expects the boy to be a mirage or something — a party trick, or a magician's grand finale. And Peter is so preoccupied with the fact that he's finally getting to see the talking raccoon and walking tree in person, he almost doesn't notice the gentle way that Mantis takes over one of the bedside seats.
At first he wonders how they managed to get by May and Tony's eagle eyes (FRIDAY has been keeping tabs, anyway), but then he recognizes that this isn't just them coming to meet the kid that had walked among them for half a year. This is their link to Gamora, and for a moment, his heart clenches painfully in his chest. He hasn't said anything about her yet. Not to May, not to Tony, not to Dr. Banner or Dr. Cho.
And now they're here — wanting answers. Wanting to know what happened, far, far away from this place.
"... How're you feeling?" Quill asks, sitting down in the chair reserved for May.
"Umm," is all he manages to get out, before he slowly doubles over and starts crying into the rough fabric of his hospital blankets. He couldn't even pretend to not know what comes over him; the thing is, he's still alarmed by the suddenness in which everything breaks down. He presses his eyes to the darkness his now tear-slicked palms provide and feels like he's gonna just break apart — like he's had a wall put up for battle, and now that the fight's all done with, it's weathered and crumbling just in time to have survived its purpose. It collapses over in a heap like him, and for a moment he can't even talk. Can't even think of anything beyond the pain in his shoulder, once from Gamora's phantom fingers, or the way she cupped his cheek like his aunt would have, when he was scared. The Guardians are uncharacteristically silent in the wake of his weeping; for a moment he thinks that maybe he's freaked them all out and they're inching their way out of the room, but then a calloused, heavy hand presses against his neck like a weighted blanket, stabilizing him.
Quill doesn't say anything at first, just leaves his hand there as Peter heaves a sob.
His voice is rough and edged with something sad, when he finally mumbles, "Go ahead, it's alright."
He wonders if Mr. Quill's even given himself permission, to cry like this.
Mantis' soft hand reaches to press against Peter's forearm, and she sucks in a pained breath. Whatever she feels through him, she keeps it their secret, but the turmoil is there — guilt, fear, pain, all the things that the soul realm churned within him, all the things that so many had forgotten when they returned. But not Peter. No, he was going to carry this and the memories of those twinkling souls — he was going to carry the memory of a green-skinned child hiding from a psychopath who called himself a 'father' — and nothing would ever be quite the same.
It takes some time for Peter to come back to himself, and by then Groot has kindly extended his arm across the room to offer a tissue box for Peter, and he rips a number of kleenex from it. As he corrals his wayward emotions and clears his throat, he begins to tell Quill everything he must want to hear: he tells him about the two years he'd spent with Gamora, at first both children who had aged so suddenly with the clarity they'd found in the situation. He tells them all about Gamora teaching him to meditate, and how they spent their time talking before and after Peter had reached out to his physical body. He told him about how often she asked about them, about how much she surely missed them.
... How much she loved her family.
"I'm sorry," Peter says, when the silence carries through the room. "I'm really sorry."
"Hey, no, you're fine, kid. You're — look." Quill breathes out, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, there's some sense of purpose there; some semblance of certainty that Peter's hard-pressed to find right now, after waking up all over again. "I just... Thank you. For being there for her. Not letting her be alone all this time. And it's not over yet, you hear me? You're proof that Gamora's not gone. She's just... harder to reach than we were. Right?"
Peter's brow furrows.
"It's possible that anything we do can't bring her back, and that she's — gone. And if it doesn't work out— Then we'll... accept it." Quill stops, bites his lip, and sucks in a sharp breath like a man not remotely ready to let go; Groot looks at him with fear in his eyes, as if such a thing should have never been uttered in the first place. "We'll keep going, like she'd want. We're still the Guardians, and we still have things to do. People to protect... to make up for everything we couldn't."
"But we have the Soul Stone," Rocket says, his voice rough. He's better at keeping up appearances than Quill, and plays it cool as he paws at his beady black nose, plays it like he's not just as anxious as the others are. "It's part of the reason the snap got undone, yeah? And as soon as we're done making the repairs on our ship after those Children of Thanos dicks messed it all up, we're takin' it back to that stupid ass mountain, and we're gonna try to trade it off. Y'know, like you'd trade hostages? That kinda thing. But with a stupid rock."
"Like taking the ring to the mountain," Peter says, a reference only the captain would even get, judging by the confused looks Mantis and Drax adopt; Quill's weary expression relaxes into something more like a smile, though. It's a good look on him, Peter thinks, and maybe he'll forgive him this one time for hating on Footloose.
"... You got it, kid. It's our big shot, and a long one, but we're not about to let it go to waste, you know?"
Peter nods, something in his chest fluttering. Amid all the chaos he'd woken up into, there's a sense of hope, among the Guardians and in him — something worth clinging to. He doesn't want to think of anything failing, of any of them having to carry on without one of their own. Thor had lost people, and Wanda lost someone, and he doesn't wanna think of them having to also suffer that same grueling fate. If there's a chance... "Before you guys go — make sure you come say goodbye to me first, okay?"
Quill gives a promising nod, rising to his feet. He seems a little less weighted as he moves toward the door, straightening his red leather jacket.
"You bet. Though by the time visiting hours are done for you around here, you might wish you'd had more time to chill."
"No way," Peter says, smiling enough to reach his eyes at least. "The more the merrier."
As he follows after Quill, Drax whispers a bit too loudly, "I knew suplexing him would have helped," and the captain shoves at him with an elbow as they vanish from view. Rocket wanders by after them, only a pair of bobbing ears at the foot of Peter's bed before he makes it to the door; Groot carefully extends a handheld gaming system to Peter to take, looking a little uncertain of his gesture. He clearly loves the handheld gadget, because Peter distinctly remembers hearing the thing whenever he was around the guy.
Peter laughs weakly, humored and grateful, and offers it back. "Thank you, dude. But you should keep this; you like this one, right?"
He absolutely proves Peter's point by looking relieved when it's returned, and starts away through the door.
When Mantis goes to leave his beside, Peter reaches out and grabs her hand, beckoning her to stay for just a moment. Her antennas glow, a soft and comforting presence among the fluorescent lights that bathe the room. And honestly, he feels like he's such a tornado on the inside that he's not really sure what she feels in the grip of his fingers. He hopes it doesn't bother her. He hopes she can feel the brittle hope that trickles through. "Mantis, um."
She looks at him, big black eyes slightly widened.
"Thanks. For worrying about me so much. For being there so much, and — and helping me sleep."
Strangely, she looks lost for a moment, as if she hadn't expected his kindness or praise. As if it was something so entirely normal and routine for her.
Her smile is awkward and out of practice, but warm.
"It was my honor, Man-Spider."
Quill was right, by the way.
Everyone who graced the halls often had been made acutely aware that the person they'd been helping care for was propped up in a bed, just ready for visiting. Between Mr. Stark bringing him a lot of snacks that probably weren't OKed by any medical professional, and May checking in on him regularly with some new bit of news ("Michelle's in town, she's dying to see you again, I'm sure you'll be able to go home soon since your room is... under... construction!"), he was also running into a variety of excited faces. Wanda had been the first to visit, though, her head wrapped up with gauze and face speckled with little scabs; Peter had already completely healed from his own tiny scrapes, and by tomorrow the bigger scratches across his arms and legs would be gone, too, so he felt a little guilty seeing her as is.
She'd waved it off, though, and they spoke about — things. Wanda's room had been partly torn up in the attack, but she had been happy to find most items of sentimentality were unscathed; it reminded him of all the things she'd lost, and though he didn't know the full extent of her pain and heartache, he couldn't help but feel that deep well of sympathy for her.
"I'm sorry for saying the things I said," she tells him when all is said and done, and he cocks his head, confused.
"I don't think, um... I remember what you said, but I'm sure you didn't mean it?"
She almost seems relieved that she may be able to dodge around whatever bullet this may be, but then her expression falters and she thinks better of it. He wouldn't have blamed her if she just let it all go, though. Instead she looks at the floor, like maybe it was too much to face him head on with whatever confession she had cupped behind her tongue. "I was bitter. I was in a bad place, and when I looked into your mind, I didn't see you; I called you a lost cause. I said you may have been better off dead. And I'm sorry for that."
"... Oh. Well..." He stops, looking at his feet for a moment. "I wasn't a lost cause, so it's okay." She relaxes a fraction, only to stiffen again when he says so very surely, "And neither are you."
"... You did not hear the first bit, but you heard that, did you?"
An apologetic and sheepish expression tugs at his features.
"That's usually how it worked. I also heard you and Mr. Barton talking about hotdogs? And for the record, hot dogs are awesome."
"Peter..." she says, a harmless warning. But then she licks her lips and nods, rubbing the corner of her eye. "I suppose I can accept us not being lost causes together. Just promise me you will not go missing for so long again — Tony Stark is intolerable now when you're gone, it seems."
"... Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha. I won't."
But there was also some part of him that wasn't so sure.
There was some part of him that knew that maybe — maybe he'd be saying goodbye again.
His mind went to work as footsteps and familiar voices echoed in the hallways outside, and he thought about souls that twinkled like stars.