Just a quick apology for making you wait forever, because the only thing that will really make up for it is to finish the story. Sorry!

Friendship Spreads Worse Than Infection

Part 3: Help Him, My Little Star-Lord

"Peter?," a soft voice inquires and then sings his name once more, "Peter."

Quill wiggles deep into the cushions of the couch as if he can fall between them enough so that sleep will whisk him far away from a world of chores, homework, and mothers trying to wake him.

"Well, that's a shame, because Star-Lord would never ignore something so important," his mother calls from just above him and curiosity peels one of his eyelids open to see her kneeling down beside the piece of furniture he's sprawled out on.

"Your grandfather needs help repairing the fence-"

"Ah, Mom, I don't want to. He's just going to talk about when he was kid the whole time and it's annoying," he groans and turns his face back into the couch.

"He's just trying to spend time with you. He may not know what to say or do, but at least he's trying. Besides, if you want to be Star-Lord, you're going to have to learn how to help others. I mean, you can't really be a hero if you just sleep all the time, can you?"

"I don't know, I'll let you know when I wake up," he giggles playfully and buries himself further down in the cushions for show, but his comfort is disturbed in seconds as his mother tickles his sides.

"How about you tell me after you help your grandfather or I just sit here and tickle you?" She counters as she moves to tickle his back, but she has to stop in order to catch him as he leaps from the couch. She hugs him close as he squirms.

"Mom," Peter drags out. "Let me go."

"Are you going to go help him?"

"Ugh," he grounds out, trying to maintain his defiance even though he's biting back a laugh.

"Please? If not for him, or for Star-Lord's reputation, then for your mother? It's important to me."

He stills for a millisecond at the hint of seriousness in her voice and blinks at her as she smiles forcefully at him before hugging him tighter and tickling him once more. "So, what's it going to be?"

"Yes, yes. I'll help him! Now, let me go," he chuckles and darts out of her arms as soon as she loosens them.

He has every intention of running out to the backyard to meet up with his grandfather as he's running towards the porch door, but suddenly the walls shift and the exit disappears, along with the familiarity of the fond memory.

Quill turns sharply to look at his mother who still stands behind him with a fond look on her face. "M-mom?"

"Help him, my little Star-Lord."

"I...I can't. The door? It's.. gone! I-"

"Find another way. Help him."

The walls start morphing and twisting into a tiny box and he tries to back away from it all, but it's squeezing down on him and he has nowhere to go. He glances back at his mother, but she appears to be fading. He tries to take a step forward to help her, to save her, but she holds a hand out to stop him.

"Not me, Peter. Him. Help him."

"Mom!" He yells as she fades to merely an ashy silhouette.

"Help him, Star-Lord!," she yells and then she's gone.

Peter tries to fill his lungs, but he starts coughing instead and...

-jerks awake. The jolt pains him, but he's too disoriented to care as he tries to place where he is. He feels wet, completely soaked actually, and when it feels like water suddenly inches up his waist, he blinks his vision clear to look down.

He's laying face down on the shore, but waist deep in the lake and when the burning pain in his leg flares like the grand finale of Fourth of July fireworks on his home planet, he scrambles up and limps out of the water to collapse his entire body on the dry shore.

He calms his breath while trying to find something in his body that still functions right. He's surprised it's his mind that gives him the victory as he's reminded of the excruciating and exhausting swim he'd taken to find another way up over the cliff since he couldn't climb it.

He debates whether his brain is, in fact, working correctly considering he purposefully got back in the water that's left him in the shape he's in now, but the organ displays the image of Rocket's blood on the cliff and whispers that he's still missing, before flickering to the dream he had.

Help him.

But damn it, if it doesn't piss him off, because he's hurt and sure as shit sick, and for God sakes, he needs help, too, and he screams just that at the world around him, but in his own echo he can still hear his mother say, "Peter, if you want to be Star-Lord, you're going to have to learn how to help others."

He drops his head back onto the ground, wincing at the small, jagged rocks that poke his scalp, and fists his eyes angrily. "I am Star-Lord! But he did it to himself! I told him they'd come," and he fists his eyes even more when his brain reminds him that he may not have been that reassuring before, "He shouldn't have left! He left me alone, defenseless! Why should I have to go after him? I mean, damn it, what if I hadn't woken up," and his screams reverberate around him as he lets that last statement sink in. "What if I hadn't woken up," he asks to himself in a whisper, letting his fists drop onto his chest. He blinks at the sky.

"At least he's trying," his mother's voice whispers and he closes his eyes to savor the sound of her soothing voice. "You can't be a hero if your sleeping all the time. Help him, my little Star-Lord. It's important to me."

So, Star-Lord pulls his ass off the ground and against every screaming fiber of his body, he goes in search of Rocket.

His stomach sinks with the sun as the afternoon begins to disappear in order for the night sky to paint the spaces between the canopy of the trees. With his head hung low and legs shaking enough that he can temporarily forget about the pain in his back, Rocket leans against a tree and for a moment he lets himself believe that it's Groot.

"Quill's an asshole," he mutters as he slides down the bark to sit down. "Don't defend him, he pushed me off a cliff. Twice!" Rocket's ears fall back as he pushes air through his nose. "I had to leave him. He wasn't waking up...I couldn't just sit there," he trails off and rests his head back on the trunk with his eyes closed. "I don't know. I thought I could...but maybe not, maybe I-," but Rocket stops abruptly in his mumbling at the sound of twigs snapping and leaves rustling.

"I think it came from over here! I hope it's the pretty boy," a deep voice chuckles from somewhere to the left of Rocket and the raccoon jumps at the noise so violently he can't help but gasp at the pain that radiates through his back.

"I want the vermin. I'm gonna gut him and stuff him," another voice replies before Rocket can get up from the ground, but the response has him on his feet quicker than he would have thought possible. He makes to run, but his legs give out two steps in and his heart picks up the pace instead. His head darts around painfully on his neck looking for a way to escape and like deja vu, all he can fathom is up.

He leaves scratches in the bark as his claws scrape against the trunk as he clambers his way up and he feels his spine grind like the skin of the tree underneath his desperate feet.

He makes purchase on the first branch. Then, the second and third, but he slips on the fourth and falls back down to the second with a sickening crack as he lands on his side. He barely manages to choke down the scream building in his throat and it burns in his lungs as he grinds his teeth hard enough his gums start to bleed.

Footfalls beat in the brief spaces of silence in between the blood rushing in his ears and he curls around the branch to become as motionless as possible as the man who had chased them off the cliff appears underneath the tree with another grotesque looking hunter.

He can almost feel the branch vibrate with the thunderous motion of his heart against the wood and he buries the side of his face into it in hopes of stilling it.

"It came from around here, I know it did."

"Suckers are pretty quick, let's look on down."

Rocket watches them disappear into the trees again, but he remains locked onto the branch, unable to move.

For every item he's taken...stolen...ravaged, Quill's sure he's said three curses for each one by the time he has to stop and sit down on a rock. He stretches his leg out which he decided two miles back didn't hurt as much and now as he rests, he decides to take it as a positive despite the numbing sensation tingling in it, because everything else he comes up with is a negative. It's dark as shit, which he's stated several times in various tones and he's fairly certain that the rock he's sitting on is the one he pissed on an hour ago, but damn it if his leg doesn't feel better.

He groans and lets the palm of his hand soak the moisture off his forehead before wiping it on his shirt, but it doesn't feel like enough. He opts for wiping his forehead down the length of his arm and finally feels like he has dry skin somewhere on his face again, but he stops in his small victory in favor of noticing a rather large, brown bug crawling up beside him on the rock.

Its ascent is slow, almost hypnotizing, but for whatever reason, it suddenly stops and seems to look to its left, then to its right before stopping in the direction of Peter. Chalk it up to fever, exhaustion, or even Quill's personality deep down inside, but the man offers the bug a ridiculous grin with one side of his mouth and asks, "You haven't seen an enraged raccoon go by have you? No? Well, that makes two of us. Bastard left me to die, I should just forget it," Quill blinks at the motionless insect next to him, then averts his eyes while bobbing his head in guilty way. "Okay, he didn't leave me to die, but he did leave and he's hurt which is...kind of my fault and if something more happens to him well, that'll be on me too. I mean, it's not that I'm worried about him. The asshole has made it perfectly clear he can take care of himself, I just-" Peter trails off as the bug suddenly begins to continue its journey on the rock and disappears in a silent bored way. "Right," Peter sighs and stands up to continue on his own course.

He manages to make it a half of a mile before he starts to contemplate stopping again. Not because his leg hurts, but because his breath sounds harsh and wheezy. The only thing is, he feels relatively fine other than being slightly out of breath and when he stops, he fills his lungs with an easy breath before pushing it out quickly through his parted, chapped lips. However, the sound still remains.

He closes his mouth, and breathes shortly through his nose as he listens for it and when his ears catch it they raise slightly in the direction above him. He tilts his head back slowly, but not before a nervous swallow, and is met with the sight of the black of night tucked in between trees branches.

He takes one cautious step backwards, unsure of what else besides Rocket could be hiding up there, and squats down to pick up a long, thick stick. He curls his fingers around it like a baseball bat, taking one more step back, and whispers, "Rocket?"

The sound hitches but otherwise remains the same. "Rocket? That you," he calls a bit louder this time and receives another hitch before a small whine.

It's not familiarity that pushes him forward, but the feeling in his stomach at the thought of the possibility that Rocket could make such a sound. He stands under the branch, just near the trunk where a small strand of light from one of the moons breaks between the branches and illuminates a bushy, ringed tail.

"Um...Rocket?"

"If you...p-poke me with that...I'll sc-scratch your eyes out," a stuttering wheeze replies while the ringed tail curls up near the branch as if afraid to let it dangle.

Quill feels something in his stomach stammer as Rocket's voice does the same, but he curls his fingers around the branch in his hands until his knuckles crack so that he can ignore it for just a moment longer. "Poke you? Seriously? I was thinking of beating the shit out of you! You could've gotten yourself killed, and more importantly, me killed! What were you thinking? And what the hell are you doing in a tree?"

"N-not becoming a plush toy for one," Rocket sounds like he's trying to ground the words out between his teeth, but the response is airy and almost disappears with the rustling of the leaves in a slight breeze that blows by.

"A plush-... Rocket, come down from there. Did you see those guys again?"

"Yes," Rocket says, this time the words are harsh as Peter watches his dark silhouette unravel from the branch.

"Are you-," but Quill's inquiry is cut off as Rocket gasps and slips from the branch. In a split second, Peter drops his stick in favor of catching the falling raccoon, but as soon as the animal lands in his arms, he's down to his knees as not only the added weight tweaks his injured leg, but Rocket is yelling and nipping at him with barred teeth as if Peter was the one who wanted to turn him into a stuffed doll.

"Woah, woah! The hell Rocket? Take it easy!" Quill fights to be heard above his friend as he tries to be as gentle as possible while dumping the animal on the ground.

Rocket doesn't respond to Quill's voice, but when his fur is in the dirt, he squirms and curls amongst the forrest floor until he's tucked up against the tree trunk between its long extending roots, face buried into a small hollow at the base.

Peter stares with wide eyes, taking in the fact that only one side of Rocket's body shows the effort of loud pants being muffled by bark. Standing, he grimaces as the raccoon's body jerks and curls at the sound of a stick breaking underneath his foot, but continues to close the small gap between them and bends down once more, mindful of his injured leg. "Rocket? Hey, come on," he says, extending a careful hand until it rests gently on the raccoon's back. The minuscule jerk underneath his fingers doesn't hurt him nearly as much as the previous reaction and he tries to offer a smile as Rocket unburies his head to look at him with cloudy eyes. "Easy, bud. You alright?"

"I-"

"He's perfect," a sickening voice comes from behind them, and despite the pain he knows it will cause Rocket, Peter tightens his grip on him and brings him protectively to his chest.

He does his best to tuck himself around the small, injured creature in his arms as he's shoved into a cage. His leg bursts with pain when he stumbles, causing him to fall onto his side with a curse spilling from his lips and a what would later be denied whimper from Rocket's, but this pain is a lot better than the previous feeling of being patted down in search of weapons or an Infinity Stone by the captors.

"Don't get too cozy, ya hear? We'll be back shortly," the man from the forrest grins as he shuts the door. Sitting up, he pulls his injured friend with him, keeping him close, and despite the loud clicking sound of the lock being slid into place, it's the violent jerk that Rocket gives that makes Peter feel sick.

He's strapped to the table again, and surrounded by a silence that only makes his heart race as he listens for the dreaded footfalls to break it. They echo and filter through the air like an imagined alarm clock until it's loud and undeniable beside him, followed by the soft, cutting clinks of sterilized instruments being placed on a tray. A man appears above him, preparing to put him under so that he can wake up with a feeling as close to the one that children have on Christmas morning as he's ever going to get. However, another man appears above him and thinks that even that harsh reality is something his experiment doesn't deserve. "No. He needs to be awake for this."

He doesn't have time to swallow before the sharp blade on a knife is imbedded in his side and all he can do is scream. It pierces him, worse than anything he's ever felt and somewhere along the way his voice gives out, leaving his mouth open and teeth barred, in a silent plea to a dark abyss. However, for the first time there's something answering him. something soft, and calm, and for a moment he believes it to be that old bastard singing down the hall, but there's no melody to whatever is being spoken, just a reassuring repetition that Rocket's been denied knowing all of his life.

"Shh, shhh, Rocket, hush. Please, be quite," Peter whispers, holding the raccoon up under his chin and softly petting the fur on his back that's farthest away from his injury. The animal in his arms suddenly becomes still, harsh cries and whimpers dying down to something Peter doesn't even want to acknowledge, but he continues his mantra hoping that whatever it is dies out too. Eventually it does, and a warm,wet nose is pulled away from his neck. He looks down, meets cloudy eyes of a raccoon he feels like he's never seen. "Heyyy, buddy," he whispers, wondering if Rocket thinks him a stranger as well.

"I...I'm not...not him. I can't. I'm...not...they did this...I..I can be mad," Rocket says, nails digging into the front of Peter's jacket, the stains of his past making rips in the present. "Don't...don't let them...I don't want this."

Peter blinks at him, unsure exactly what Rocket means, but knows that it has something to do with the bolts he can feel on his friend's back. The next time he reaches up to pet the animal's back, he avoids any metal, fingers running over the parts that could allow Rocket to feel comfort. "I won't," he says, making more of a promise than he ever has in his life. "Whatever it is, Rocket, I won't let them."

He pulls Rocket back to him, tucks the warm nose back to the fevered skin of his own neck, and despite knowing he's not well enough to fight their captors off, he still promises again, "I won't let them hurt you," before becoming face to face with his mother again.

"Help him, my little Star-Lord," she says, her hand ghosting down the side of his face, curling under his chin until she fingers Rocket's ear.

"I'm trying, Mom, but what if I can't?" He pants, slumping sideways as he tries to lean into her touch.

"Find another way, Peter. It's important to me."

"Why?" He asks, pushing his head against the wall holding him up in a seated position.

"Because he, too, thinks you are a hero, my little Star-Lord. Prove to him there are much better things to be."

"Like...like what?"

He feels her hands on the side of his face again, cold lips pressed to his temple. He feels them curl into a smile before she leans away. He hand trails down, leaving a chill across him before it rests on his own covering Rocket's back. "A friend, Peter."

AN: I'm aiming for one more final update to complete the story. I mean Rocket may or may not learn about Hansel and Gretel, require a surgery that Quill can't stomach, and somewhere along the way they have to be rescued, don't they? Hope you'll stick around! Let me know what you think.

Also, I'm trying to start a small, little blog from my author name on Tumblr just as a way to indulge in conversation about all the fandoms I like. If you want, follow me at djdangerlove-ffwriter on Tumblr to share the love of fandoms together. It'd mean a lot if you helped me get started, because I'm fairly new to Tumblr in general.