I loved Endgame, but it broke my heart. The result? My tears fueled fix-it fic. This is a major rewrite and it will deviate largely from the events in Endgame. Enjoy!

22 Days

Day 5

Peter had never seen anything quite as beautifully tranquil as the vast expanse of outer space. Beyond the thick panes of glass, he could see galaxies, as tiny as the heads of push pins, dotting the sea of darkness. Some of them were large enough for him to make out the swirling pattern of stars and planets in it. Close enough for him to see, but too far away for alien civilizations to hear their distress signals.

That, in and of itself, was a blessing and a curse.

All of those planets, the thousands floating off in the distance, couldn't hear the Benatar's distress signals, and that would spell out their deaths. But it also meant that Peter couldn't hear the distress of all those thousands of planets that he had failed. The screams and cries of billions were swallowed up by the beautiful numbing void of space. Muted, even to Peter's ears. For that, he was grateful. It was bad enough that Peter had to watch people disintegrate in his nightmares. At least during the time that he was awake, he could smother his guilt by focusing on his survival.

Every night was different. Some nights Peter would remember how that odd bunch of aliens, the Guardians of the Galaxy, and Doctor Strange had flaked off piece by piece and gotten lost in the wind. Sometimes he watched May crumble in to ash in their kitchen. Other nights it was Ned and MJ who would dissolve in to nothing in the school cafeteria.

Every night, Peter would wake in a cold sweat and with a scream on his lips. Every night, Mr. Stark would come to him and hold him like a child while he cried. Five days ago, such an act would have embarrassed Peter beyond belief. Five days ago, Peter had been under the delusion that he was grown up enough to handle being an Avenger. He was always trying to prove himself to his mentor. Trying to prove that he was capable. But he wasn't capable. Half of all life in the universe paid the price of this realization. In the wake of his failure, Peter could see how, in the grand scheme of things, he was still a kid.

The expanse of space that stretched out before him held a small mercy; Blissful ignorance as to who was dead and who was alive. Peter only had to witness the deaths of the four that had been with them on Titan. Everyone else that he loved, and all those who he didn't or who he had never even met, lived in a state of being both alive and dead. Like Schrodinger's universe.

"You gonna stare at the stars all day, or are you gonna make yourself useful?" Mr. Stark's voice came from behind Peter. Peter blinked to refocus his eyes and saw the man's reflection behind his shoulder in the giant window of the Benatar. Peter turned around to face him and saw that Mr. Stark was carrying a box with various tools in it.

Peter wasn't exactly sure what he looked like right now, but whatever it was made Mr. Stark's face crinkle with concern. In these past five days, Peter found that he felt too much and also too little. There were times, like those nights when he would wake up screaming from nightmares and crying in to Mr. Stark's chest, where he felt too much. The weight of his grief would crush his lungs until they could barely function and he was left drawing breath in shaky, rattling bursts.

Other times, Peter felt oddly detached from everything. It felt as if he was living in a dream and everything was just happening around him. Like nothing was real and he was just walking around in a sleepy haze.

Peter kinda felt like that right now.

Shifting the box of tools under one arm, Mr. Stark wrapped his free arm around Peter's shoulders and guided him away from the window. Peter could feel the weight of Mr. Stark's arm, yet it didn't really register in his brain. Nor did he really feel aware that he was walking.

"C'mon, kid. We got an engine to fix." Mr. Stark said softly. Peter said nothing in response as they walked down the hall towards the engine room. The fuel lines in the ship had been damaged during the fight. They had been repaired on the first day, but within the first 48 hours the ship had run out of gas. The problem, as far as Peter was aware, wasn't with the engine. He couldn't help but wonder if this was just busy work for Mr. Stark. Maybe he needed the illusion, the dream, that he could fix this. "The Blue Meanie thinks she might've spotted where the problem is."

Five days ago, Peter might have said that it was unfair to call Nebula a 'meanie'. She wasn't mean, just socially awkward. Then he might have thought about it some more and realized that Mr. Stark was making a reference to some old tv show or movie that Peter had never seen. Then Mr. Stark would have laughed and called him a kid when Peter admitted that he didn't get the reference.

But Peter didn't say any of those things now. He couldn't find his voice. It was lost, just like he was lost.

He was lost in space.

His voice was lost in himself.

Day 10

Being stranded in space with a dwindling supply of resources made Peter acutely aware of how much he had taken for granted on Earth. Like access to food and water. He had lived in New York, one of the largest cities in the world. Food and water had always been within reach. Even for those who couldn't afford it, there were still safety nets like food banks and welfare in place. Dying of starvation had never been a thought that had crossed Peter's mind before.

God, he was so hungry.

The Benatar had been floating through space for ten days. On the first day, he, Mr. Stark and Nebula had turned the ship upside down, looking for any and all food and water available. After the first 48 hours, the Benatar had become stranded in space, and it became apparent to them all that they may be stranded for a long period of time. Maybe indefinitely. Peter tried not to think about that too much. Any time he did, panic would seize his throat and cut off his breathing.

Mr. Stark had rationed their food in to portions large enough to sustain them for each day, but it was hardly enough to sustain Peter's metabolism. Peter never mentioned anything about it to Mr. Stark. The man was well aware of Peter's unique genetic enhancements and what was required to maintain them. It was a problem with no solution. There was simply no more food to be found. Peter knew, before he even started, that his search would be fruitless, but still he searched. His hunger pangs urging him to do so.

Every room in the Benatar had already been searched. The sleeping quarter that Peter stood in was no exception. He could tell that either Nebula or Mr. Stark had already ransacked the place, as everything in the room was a jumbled mess. Drawers were left half pulled out, papers were strewn about and on the desk a few cassette tapes lay with the labels facing up. Peter hadn't known any of the aliens who had lived on the ship well enough to be able to tell whose room it was based on the personal effects. A tiny part of him felt guilty for going through someone's room without their permission, but it was easily pushed from his mind by his growing hunger.

Peter's eyes swept over the room quickly, although he wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. He supposed he was looking for anything that looked like it hadn't been disturbed yet. On top of the bedside table, Peter saw what appeared to be an old-school mp3 player. It was clunky and old. A pair of earbuds trailed out of the top and were wrapped around it. Excitement filled Peter as he picked it up and put it in his pocket. Music would help time go by faster. Being trapped in a ship for ten days with nothing to do was causing him to go stir crazy.

The underside of a bed was an obvious place to hide something. Surely, anything of value had already been taken from it. Peter dropped to his knees to peer under the bed, and was surprised to see it was messy, but undisturbed. A bunch of balled up dirty clothes littered the space. The subtle stench of body odor made Peter's nose crinkle. He felt a small smirk pull at his lips as he realized that the space under his bed at home looked much like this. At least he could blame his messy room on being a lazy teenager. All of the guardians that he had met were adults.

In the corner, pressed up against the wall, was a small box. Peter's heart leapt in anticipation at the sight of it. Maybe it was a secret stash of cookies that one of the guardians didn't feel like sharing with the others. Peter lay down on his stomach and reached as far as he could under the bed. His fingers barely brushed the side of the box, but he managed to hook his finger tips under the edge of the lid and pull it out.

Peter shifted his body so that he was sitting cross legged on the floor and leaning against the bed. The box was small, maybe a foot in width and length and six inches deep. There was no lock on it and Peter mentally crossed his fingers in hopes of finding some kind of midnight snack in it. He lifted the lid and was greeted with the sight of an orange-haired troll doll.

What?

Who the hell keeps creepy little troll dolls in a box under their bed? But then again, Peter supposed that wasn't fair of him to say. He still played with Legos, so who was he to judge. Peter sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. This wasn't him. He wasn't normally this irritable. Hunger was just making him cranky, and the disappointment of not finding anything edible was overwhelming.

It would have been a nice surprise for Mr. Stark, if he had managed to reappear in the lower level of the Benatar with some over-looked food in hand. His enhanced hearing could make out the sounds of the ship, constantly buzzing and whirling, along with the sounds of Mr. Stark and Nebula going about their business.

Peter moved to place the lid back on top of the box when he noticed something peeking out at him from under the layers of junk; His name written on a faded yellow envelop. All of his thoughts screeched to a sudden halt.

How was that possible? No one could have known that he would be here, on the Benatar, stranded in space. So how…?

With shaking hands, Peter reached down to pull out the envelop. Inside of it, he found a letter written in unfamiliar handwriting. His eyes skimmed over the contents of the letter. It didn't make sense until he reached the end.

'You are the light of my life,

my precious son,

my little Star Lord.

Love, Mom.'

Oh, God.

Peter's cheeks flushed with shame from having read something so personal. This farewell letter from a dying mother to her son wasn't meant for his eyes. In his defense, he hadn't known that Star Lord's real name was Peter. They hadn't gotten that well acquainted in the brief time before the battle came. Before Thanos. Peter suddenly felt very ashamed at having thought that this was just a box of random junk. Clearly, it all had sentimental value. Idly, Peter wondered who the troll doll had belonged to.

He shouldn't be here. This was Peter Quill's home and he was intruding.

"Why are you altering the rations?"

Nebula's hard metallic voice came from the level below Peter. It was faint, but Peter's enhanced hearing managed to catch her words.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it." Mr. Stark shot back in a hushed tone. Peter glanced quizzically at the floor, the general direction where the conversation was coming from. Mr. Stark was altering the rations?

"You have not divided these up equally." Nebula said in her usual monotonous voice. "You have given the boy more than his share-"

"Shut up. The kid has really good hearing." Mr. Stark hissed so faintly that Peter almost couldn't hear it. But he did hear it, and he became frozen to his spot on the floor. Mr. Stark was giving Peter larger portions? Their food was a finite amount, that meant that either Mr. Stark or Nebula would have to have less. Peter already knew that Mr. Stark would never take from someone else. Without a doubt, Mr. Stark was reducing his own rations. The silence stretched on for a moment before Nebula spoke again.

"You are willing to prioritize the boy's survival over your own?"

The question made Peter's throat constrict and tears stung at his eyes. All of this was so unfair. This wasn't a choice that anyone should have to make.

"I knew this was a one-way ticket for me, but I want Peter to see home again."

A strangled sob escaped Peter's lips before he smothered his mouth with his palm. It was too much. Peter didn't want Mr. Stark to make sacrifices on his account. Didn't want him to lessen his own chances of survival because of his presence. He couldn't stand to hear another word. With shaking fingers, Peter fished the mp3 player out of his pocket and hastily jammed the ear buds in to his ears. The screen lit up and displayed the company's name; Zune. He hit the shuffle button, not caring about whatever song was about to play. He just needed something to drown out the conversation below deck.

Soft, folk-county music blared in Peter's ears causing him to wince. He turned the volume down to a comfortable level, and then he realized that he recognized the song. His mom had been a John Denver fan. Though Peter hadn't heard this song in years, he still knew all the words.

'Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain momma,

Take me home, country roads'

Peter was laughing and he couldn't stop. Or was he crying? Was there really a difference anymore? He looped his arms around his knees and buried his head in his pant legs. His tears soaked through the fabric, wetting his knees.

Day 15

Peter knew that he was going to die in seven days. Well, he knew that he and Mr. Stark would die in seven days. He wasn't sure when Nebula would die. As an alien cyborg, she didn't need to eat as much as a human in order to sustain herself. Maybe she didn't need to breathe air like humans did. Peter had thought it would be a tactless question to ask in the face of their imminent deaths. Not to mention, the answer would be irrelevant. No one was coming to rescue them, so she would die eventually. They were all living on borrowed time.

Food and water would be used up in three days.

The oxygen supply would run out in seven days.

Mr. Stark had tried to keep that bit of information a secret from Peter, but he had overheard Mr. Stark and Nebula discussing it in hushed tones when they thought he was asleep. Nebula didn't seem to understand why they were keeping Peter in the dark about that fact, but Peter knew that Mr. Stark was trying to protect him. After fourteen consecutive nights of ceaseless nightmares, Mr. Stark probably didn't want to add 'fear of suffocation' to the nightmare fodder. He was probably hoping to spare Peter that fear in hopes that, when the time came, he would just slip off in to an endless sleep.

Oddly enough, knowing the truth had given Peter some peace of mind. He wasn't clinging to the vain hope that they would live. He wanted to live, of course. He wanted to go home and hug May. He wanted to play video games with Ned again. He wanted to finally ask MJ out on a date. But none of that was in the cards.

They were going to die.

Peter didn't want to die, but he was starting to get used to the idea. It didn't elicit the same terror that it once had. He felt almost calm about it.

With this new found peace, Peter had found his voice returning. Or rather, his desire to say anything was returning. He had even managed to crack a joke yesterday when Mr. Stark had knocked a lamp off of the table.

"Shit." The man had cursed under his breath. Peter had smiled weakly before deciding that now was a good time to break his two week long vow of silence.

"Dum-E's not here. You can't blame this one on him."

Mr. Stark had stared at him for a split second, completely dumbfounded, and then Peter saw relief wash over his features. Mr. Stark had laughed with much more enthusiasm than what his weak joke deserved. And for the first time in two weeks, Peter had felt… well, not happy. He doubted that he would feel happy again before he died. But he felt content at least.

Peter had come to terms with his approaching demise. All there was left to do now was to kill time. Mr. Stark seemed to be of the same opinion, though they had never discussed the whole 'dying in space' thing out loud. Peter could see Mr. Stark had also given up any hope of survival. As of the past couple of days, he seemed less hurried. He had also given up the pretense of 'fixing the engine', which hadn't needed repairs to begin with.

All they were doing was waiting to die. Playing a couple rounds of paper football was as good of a time waster as any.

"You don't need to do that, cause you're just holding the position." Mr. Stark explained to Nebula as she tied to snatch the metal foil football out of midair. Peter sat at the end of the table, half watching their table-top football match and half focusing on cutting the spare metal foil in to perfect squares. A small smile played over his lips as he watched Nebula flick the football aggressively. It veered off to the side and missed Mr. Stark's finger goal post.

"That was close."

Nebula growled in frustration as she picked up the football again. Peter pressed his lips in to a hard line to keep from laughing. He knew that Nebula would rip off both of his arms and shove them down his throat if she thought that he was laughing at her. Well, Peter supposed that he was laughing at her, but not maliciously. He just found it amusing how she tackled everything from hand-to-hand combat to engine repair to paper football with 110% ferocity. She grunted again as she flicked the football. This time it sailed over Mr. Stark's fingers.

"That's a goal. We're now at one a piece."

"I would like to try again."

The pair moved in to the tie-breaker round as Peter turned his focus back to the sheets of foil. It had been a long time since he had folded origami, but he remembered that the squares needed to have perfectly equal length sides for it to work. If he stopped to think about the steps needed for folding a paper crane, his mind would draw a blank. He was hoping that his muscle memory would take over when he tried to attempt it. But then again, Peter supposed that it didn't matter if it took him a while to relearn how to fold the crane. It's not like they were in a hurry.

"And, you've won." Peter glanced up to see Nebula staring at Mr. Stark with an incredulous expression. "Congratulations. Fair game. Good sport." He reached forward to shake Nebula's hand. "Did you have fun?"

Nebula seemed to be considering Mr. Stark's words carefully before responding. Peter wondered if anyone had ever asked her that before. As an abducted child, raised by a psychotic genocide obsessed freak, Peter doubted that anyone had ever considered her happiness before. Maybe in the beginning of her life, she had been happy with her family on her home planet. And then life had happened and Thanos had stolen her away. Maybe now, at the end of her life, Peter could do something to make her happy again.

"It was fun." She replied in a strange tone, like the words were foreign to her.

"Do you want a crane, a boat, or a flower?" Peter asked. Nebula stared at him like he had two heads while Mr. Stark looked mildly amused.

"What?"

"For a victory prize." Peter clarified while gesturing with one hand to the small squares of foil. "Do you want a crane, boat, or flower?"

Peter could tell that Nebula still didn't really understand his question. She seemed to be weighing her options carefully.

"Flower."

Peter smiled a small smile while turning his attention to one of the metal foils. The last time he had made an origami lily, he had been in middle school, but he had made a lot of them so he could still remember all of the steps to make it. It was kind of like riding a bike. His hands just knew what to do. There was silence during the few minutes that it took him to fold the flower. He put the final touches on it by curling the petals outward and then presented it to Nebula with all of the finesse of a stage magician.

"Ta-da!"

Nebula stared for a moment at the little silver lily before taking it from his extended hand. She turned it gently in her hand, to look at it from all angles. Then she hesitantly lifted it to her nose to sniff. Peter could practically see the confusion growing behind her eyes with each passing second, and once again he had to smother a smile. He glanced over at Mr. Stark to see the man leaning back in his seat and smirking.

"What does it do?"

The question caught Peter a little off guard and he felt his smile slip. He thought the answer was obvious.

"Nothing. It's just pretty."

Nebula was staring at him again. She still looked perplexed though her face was expressionless. It was in her eyes. Solid black and yet still incredibly expressive.

"It serves no purpose."

A tired smile settled over Peter's face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on to the table. Nebula never really talked much about her life. Peter decided that he didn't really want to know the details of it if the result of such a life was believing that everything needed to have a practical purpose.

"Sure it does. It makes people feel good when they look at it." Peter explained. Nebula blinked slowly and Peter could see his words being turned over in her mind with great care. "When I was in middle school, one of my teachers went on maternity leave and, as a gift, every kid in the class made a flower and we put them in a mason jar. We wanted to make her feel appreciated, but we were also just a bunch of broke 11-year-olds, so a bouquet of paper flowers was the best we could do."

A tiny hint of a smile flashed over Nebula's face. It was subtle and quick, but Peter decided to take it as a sign of success. He wasn't sure if he could count that as making Nebula happy, but at the very least he had gotten her to cut loose, if only for a moment. It was enough.

With that accomplished, Peter felt lost. One task was over, and he needed another one to keep himself sane. Something needed to fill up the 168 or so hours until he died. He supposed that he could just keep folding origami. Maybe, near the end of those 168 hours, Mr. Stark would find him surrounded by a million metal foil cranes. Like in that movie 'I am Sam'. He only knew how to make three things; the crane, the boat, and the flower. It would get tedious after a while. But what else was there to do?

Oh, wait. He knew how to make four things. He forgot about those paper sailor hats.

"Yeah, I guess the only origami craft that has a practical purpose is the hat." Peter mused as he picked up the roll of metal foil and ripped off a larger sheet of it. The hat had fewer steps than the flower, and it took him less than a minute to make. He could feel Nebula's curious eyes on him as he folded the metal sheet. He gave the hat an approving nod when he was done and proudly placed it on his head. He looked up to see both Mr. Stark and Nebula staring at his pointed hat. Nebula with insurmountable confusion and a hint of disgust. Mr. Stark just looked like he had lost a lot of respect for Peter.

"Why would anyone want to wear a metal foil hat?" Nebula asked. "It offers no protection."

Peter felt the smile drop from his face as his mind tried to formulate a response. Sometime he forgot that Nebula, not being from Earth, didn't get his plethora of pop culture jokes and references. Hell, Mr. Stark was from Earth and it was pretty hit and miss for him to get Peter's jokes. Or maybe he got them all, but found them exhausting.

"Oh, uh, some people believe that tin foil hats keep machines from beaming in to your head and reading your thoughts."

An awkward silence filled the room.

"I did not know that Terrans were so stupid."

Mr. Stark laughed as he eyed Peter. Genuine amusement lit his eyes and the sight of it made Peter feel… happy.

Huh.

What a pleasant surprise. Peter was glad that, if only for a moment, they could trick themselves in to feeling alright. In their last days, they could still feel some semblance of their old selves. He didn't want this moment to end, but it would. Still, he would play along for as long as he could.

"Wow. Rude." Peter said flatly, but the smile that tugged at his lips ruined his façade.

"Yeah, we also got a law on Earth that states that all village idiots must wear the shiny metal dunce cap at all times in order to prevent them from blending in with normal society." Mr. Stark said to Nebula, who nodded seriously while he spoke.

Wait, she wasn't taking this seriously, was she?

"We like to pick our idiots out of a crowd, like that." Mr. Stark added with a snap of his fingers and Nebula hummed in agreement.

Oh, God. She was actually buying this crap. Peter spluttered indignantly, which caused Mr. Stark's smile to broaden.

"So, what, are you saying I'm the village idiot of Queens?"

"Well, if the hat fits…" Nebula said, a little less monotonously that usual. In fact, her voice almost sounded teasing.

Wait. She was teasing him. Peter could see it in the ghost of a smile that crossed her face and the subtle crinkling at the corner of her eyes.

Well, how about that?

Mr. Stark seemed just as surprised as Peter was, though he was better at concealing it. Peter wondered if this made them friends. He liked to think that it did, though he didn't dare voice the question aloud. Didn't dare to shatter this moment. He needed to play along and keep it going for as long as possible. Instead he threw a hand dramatically over his heart.

"You know, words hurt, Nebula."

Just play along, and maybe they could stretch this moment in to 168 hours. Play along and maybe they could die laughing.

Day 22

Peter had never felt so miserable in his life. His head was pounding in time with his pulse. His body ached all over in a way that he felt, not only in his muscles, but his bones as well. He was back to his voiceless state. Not because he was in shock, but because his throat was too parched to manage anything above a whisper. Four days without food and water was an arduously painful experience for everyone on board the Benatar. Peter was just feeling worse off because of his metabolism.

Before this twenty-two day long voyage in space, Peter would have pegged the day he was bitten by a radioactive spider and, as a result, was genetically mutated as the most miserable he had ever been. It paled in comparison to this. At least when he had been bitten, the transformation was quick. Over and done with in one feverish night. That was truly what made this experience the worst; it was so long and drawn out.

It was cruel to suffer for twenty-two days. It was crueler still to have to live the remainder of his hours knowing that he wouldn't make it to day twenty-three. He wanted day twenty-three, and all of the days after it. He would be dead by morning when the oxygen ran out. That is, if dehydration didn't kill him first. He remembered reading about how most people could only survive three days without water. But then again, that was usually applied to situations like being stranded in the desert, where the sun was beating down on you. Mr. Stark had been lost in the desert once. Peter wondered which experience had been worse for him.

Sitting in the copilot's chair, Peter found himself staring again at the void of space. The chair was huge. Peter wasn't sure if it was designed to seat a much larger species than a human, or if he had lost so much weight that the chair appeared to be large in comparison to his skinny frame. Both explanations were possible. Peter tried to not look at his reflection in the giant window. Despite Mr. Stark's efforts to give him his best chance at survival, the past three weeks had not been kind to him. The stranger staring back at him was practically a corpse. Emaciated and sickly pale. Eyes sunken and red. Lips cracked and pealing. The sight disgusted and terrified him. He tried to keep his focus on the star speckled sight beyond the glass.

The stars and constellations were different than the ones he had been staring at weeks ago. The Benatar had been drifting through space, but at no point had they floated near enough to a sun for Peter to see daylight again. He wished that he could have felt sunlight on his skin one last time. Dying alone in the cold darkness of space was not preferable. But Peter was an optimist. He had been all of his life. If this was the last sight that he was ever going to see, he was going to enjoy it.

That was easier said than done.

When Peter had first realized that he was going to starve to death, he had gone through a mental list of possible symptoms to expect. What he hadn't counted upon was the overwhelming feeling of fatigue. It was beyond frustrating, to feel so tired and yet be in too much pain to be able to sleep. Even now, staring out of the Benatar's window, Peter could feel his eyes itching and yearning for sleep. If he closed them, he would just be staring at darkness until he suffocated.

If Peter still had his voice, or the energy, he would scream.

He needed something to distract him from the hunger pangs, and his general achiness. He decided to name the constellations he saw before him. That group of stars looked like an umbrella. Below it, and a foot to the left, Peter could see a piece of bread. But only if he squinted.

"Oh, hey Pete."

Mr. Stark was beside him, his sudden appearance startling Peter. Twenty-two days ago, he would have heard Mr. Stark approaching. His senses had deteriorated, just like everything else. With enormous effort, Peter turned his head so that he could see Mr. Stark. His eyes met his mentor's for a brief moment before the man dropped his gaze to the Iron Man helmet that he carried in his hands. Peter understood. He couldn't stand to look at himself either.

"I'm gonna, make a recording for Pepper. In case…" He trailed off in to a choking sound. "Well, you know."

"Yeah. I know." Peter mumbled in his scratchy voice. He knew exactly what Mr. Stark was talking about and Mr. Stark knew that he knew. Despite having never talked about it, here in their final moments, there were no secrets.

Mr. Stark ran his hands nervously over the helmet, and Peter got the impression that he was about to ask him something difficult. Did he want him to leave so that he would have privacy for his recording? Peter knew that he had neither the energy to get up, nor the strength to stand on his legs. Whatever secret, sentimental things he had to say to Ms. Potts would die with him in a couple hours, so it all seemed rather pointless for him to leave.

"Do you want to make one for your aunt?" He finally asked, raising his gaze to meet Peter's.

Huh. Well, he hadn't been expecting that.

Did he want to make a recording? No, he didn't think he did. He didn't have the energy to do anything, and even if he did he wouldn't know what to say. How do you say good-bye to someone who may not even be alive anymore? Peter's thoughts drifted to the little box under Peter Quill's bed. He wondered if that letter from his mom had made him feel better or worse. If her final words had given him comfort to know that she had lived, or grief to be reminded that she had died. If May was alive, he wanted her to remember him at his best. Not like this. He didn't want her to see the shell he had become.

Mr. Stark was staring expectantly at Peter, and he realized sluggishly that he hadn't answered him. He was exhausted, and words were too much work. He shook his head slightly, feeling the dizzy cotton feeling scatter around his brain. Mr. Stark's eyes tightened in… some kind of way. Peter was too tired to guess what the man was feeling. His eyes were heavy, so he closed them for a second.

"… don't know if you're ever gonna see these. I don't even know if you're still… Oh, God I hope so."

Mr. Stark's voice was coming from somewhere behind Peter. He opened his eyes to find that Mr. Stark was gone from his side. Oh, he must have blinked for a long second. A spark of terror, that hadn't quite been extinguished by his apathy, ignited. He needed to stay awake. He was standing on a precipice, about to drop in to something unknown. If he closed his eyes, he might never open them again. Peter focused his remaining strength on Mr. Stark's voice, and listened to him chronicling their journey for Ms. Potts.

"Oh, you'd love her. Very practical. Only a tiny bit sadistic." A tiny smirk curled Peter's lip as he listened to Mr. Stark describe Nebula. "The kid's with me too, but I bet you figured that out already. We needed all hands on deck for this fight, and for some reason Pete thought I wanted him to come along." Mr. Stark voice had a touch of steel to it. Not a lot, but enough make Peter's heart clench. The man paused his monologue and Peter heard him breathe a deep sigh. "I guess at this point, it's spilled milk. He fought with us on an alien planet, and that was very brave and noble. So, that's what I'm choosing to focus on right now. Oh, if you happen to see May Parker, tell her she's allowed to spit on my grave. I'm officially giving her permission."

Peter's throat tightened out of guilt and frustration. He hated that Mr. Stark felt responsible for him. Hated that they were in this situation. But it was his choice to be here. He chose to follow Mr. Stark to battle. He wished that they had won. He wished, at the very least, that they had been granted the mercy of a quick death on Titan, rather than surviving the battle and dying slowly in space. He wished a lot of thing had turned out differently, but he didn't regret fighting. He didn't regret following Mr. Stark. He never could.

"I'll dream about you. Cause it's always you." Mr. Stark whispered. A click followed soon after, and then a long silence.

That was that. Nothing more to say, nothing more to do. Peter supposed that Mr. Stark would go find some place to rest, and wait. Panic crept through him at the thought of Mr. Stark leaving.

Peter didn't want to be alone when he died. Nor could he find the will to call out to Mr. Stark. He would be alone in the end-

"How you holding up, kid?" Mr. Stark asked as he appeared by his side again. Relief washed over Peter with such intensity that he would have cried if he had the energy. Mr. Stark sat on the arm rest of the chair and gently put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Just peachy." Peter mumbled. It was okay now. Mr. Stark was here. He would stay with him. Peter allowed his eyes to slip closed as he listened to the ambient sounds of the ship and Mr. Stark's breathing.

A minute passed, or maybe more, when suddenly Peter became aware of a second presence standing beside him. All was silent. No words were exchanged. Then Peter felt metal arms slip under his knees and back and lift him up. Peter cracked his eyes open for a second to see Mr. Stark slip in to his chair and Nebula place him on the man's lap. His eyes closed again before his head fell on Mr. Stark's chest. Mr. Stark's arms wrapped around Peter's body and Peter could feel the chest under his ear rising and falling. His heart beat thrummed steadily.

"Thanks, Nebula." The words rumbled in Mr. Stark's chest.

Nebula said nothing, but Peter heard her retreating footsteps. In her wake, a stifling silence remained, whispering promises of a fate soon to come.

Peter wasn't ready.

"Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't wanna go."

Despite his fear, Peter's voice was hollow. Mr. Stark's arms wrapped around him tighter, as if that would keep him there.

"I know, Pete."

There was something else. One last thing that he needed Mr. Stark to understand.

"You didn't want me to come." He murmured.

"You know that I didn't."

"Doesn't matter." Peter said firmly. "I'll follow you. Anywhere."

Mr. Stark sat frozen for a moment. Silence stretched on, and he said nothing. Peter hadn't anticipated a response, nor did think that one matter. He had said what he needed to say. Here, at the end, nothing really mattered anymore. Under Peter's head, he felt Mr. Stark's body start to tremble. Slowly, wading through the thick haze of his mind, he realized that Mr. Stark was crying. He hadn't meant to make him cry, and now he had nothing left to say to comfort him.

Everything was slipping away. Consciousness slipping like sand between his fingers. Something pressed firmly to the top of his head. Peter had barely the presence of mind to wonder what it was.

'I love you, kid.'

Words with no meaning washed over him. Soon after, darkness swallowed him up.