The Milano's engines hummed steadily in the background, the familiar sound of the ship's systems working quietly as Peter Quill, Star-Lord, lay in his bunk staring at the ceiling. The mission was over. Ego was defeated, and the Guardians were whole again—at least physically. But inside Peter's mind, it was a different story.

His father—his real father, the one he had been searching for all his life—was a god of destruction. Ego had told him, in no uncertain terms, that everything about their bond was a lie. The worst part? Peter had been a tool. Ego had used him. And the revelation was enough to rip through Peter like a whirlwind, leaving him disoriented, broken, and far from whole. He hadn't talked to anyone about it, least of all the team. What could he say? That his entire existence had been manipulated by a man he had only just met, who had taken him away from Earth, turning him into nothing more than a pawn in his twisted game? The weight of it was unbearable.

His heart raced as he tried to focus on something else—anything else—but his thoughts drifted back to the same place: Ego's betrayal.

Peter's breath caught in his throat as his chest tightened, the familiar pang of panic creeping up on him. He fought it down, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as the pressure in his head mounted. The room felt like it was closing in, the walls narrowing as his pulse quickened.

"Come on, Peter, get it together," he whispered to himself, the words shaky.

But the panic didn't listen. It kept gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, dragging him down into the dark.

He couldn't remember how long he'd been lying there, trying to regain control. It felt like an eternity. But before he could wrestle his emotions back into some semblance of order, he heard a soft clink of something metal from across the room.

"About time you woke up."

Peter turned his head slowly, eyes adjusting to the sight of Rocket sitting cross-legged on the floor. The raccoon was hunched over something, his furry hands moving quickly as he tinkered with a piece of the Milano's communication equipment.

Rocket didn't even look up from his work as he continued speaking, his voice laced with annoyance. "I thought you were gonna sleep all day again, Quill."

Peter blinked, still feeling a little out of it. "What time is it?"

"About eighteen hours since we got back," Rocket muttered, tossing a small part onto the table in front of him. "You've been out cold for a while. Figured I'd make myself useful and fix some of the broken stuff around here."

Peter tried to sit up, but a sharp ache in his side made him wince. His ribs—at least he thought it was his ribs—hurt like hell. He glanced down at the side of his torso, and for the first time in a while, noticed the fresh, jagged scar tissue marking the place where Ego's weapon had stabbed him. The wound was tender to the touch, still healing, but deep enough to leave a permanent scar.

"Great," Peter muttered under his breath, touching it lightly. The skin was still raw, pulling in uncomfortable ways. He quickly shifted his focus back to Rocket.

"Thanks," Peter said dryly, his voice hoarse from being unused. "I didn't realize I was out that long."

Rocket grunted, finally looking up and meeting Peter's gaze. "Eh, you were near comatose when we dragged you back on board. A little longer and you wouldn't be waking up at all."

Peter's stomach tightened at the mention of how close he had come to death. He wanted to argue, to make a joke out of it, but there was a cold knot in his chest that wouldn't let him.

"Sorry," he muttered, glancing away.

Rocket frowned at that, his ears flicking back slightly. "Yeah, well… don't make it a habit. Next time you try bleeding to death in the middle of a mission, maybe do it around someone else. Got it?"

Peter smirked faintly, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I'll try to avoid that next time."

But Rocket's eyes narrowed, and his tone shifted, softening just slightly. "You really freaked me out, y'know? Don't do that again."

Peter paused. The words hit harder than he expected. Rocket never showed much concern for anyone, let alone Peter. But there it was, in his gruff voice—genuine worry.

"I won't," Peter said quietly, offering a faint, tired smile.

Rocket didn't return the smile. He just went back to his work, but Peter could see his posture relax, like he had said what he needed to say. For a long moment, the two of them were quiet, the only sound the occasional clink of Rocket's tools as he worked.

Peter closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. He wasn't ready to admit it, but the panic was still there, gnawing at him beneath the surface. He had learned to hide it from the others, to push it down when it threatened to spill over. He couldn't let the team see him like this—not after everything they had just been through.

But despite his best efforts to ignore it, the fear always crept back in. And when the panic started to rise, the urge to hurt himself, to feel something tangible, was never far behind.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of it pressing down on him harder than before.

"Hey, Peter," Rocket's voice broke through his thoughts again. "You okay?"

Peter opened his eyes, staring blankly at Rocket for a long moment. "Yeah," he lied, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just tired."

Rocket studied him for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly. But whatever he saw, he didn't push. Instead, he shrugged and returned to his work. "Alright, well, I'm fixing stuff. You get some rest, you look like you need it."

Peter nodded, but inside, he was a long way from okay.