And now they're reading poetry to each other. I never intended to become this horribly sappy.

Anyways, this takes place sometime after my Shaking Hands fic, so while it's not quite a sequel and you don't have to read that one first to understand what's going on, you should probably know that Peter and Gamora are together in this fic. Or at least they're trying to be.

I own neither Guardians of the Galaxy nor "The Old Astronomer (To His Pupil)".

Enjoy!

Peter Quill does not have heart attacks every day, but when he does, they apparently strike when Gamora decides to collapse mid-battle. And he thinks he has more than enough reason too- Gamora, fierce, beautiful, totally badass Gamora, does not collapse in the middle of a fight. Ever. Hence the heart seizure.

He probably should have seen it coming. The team had opted to refuel at a small planet in the middle of nowhere- well, as close as you could get to the middle of nowhere in, you know, freaking space. At any rate, they probably should have double-checked the crime rate at the fuel stop. Or at least, like, profiled the regular crowds.

And he definitely should have noticed that Gamora was looking way too green-well, greener than normal, anyways. Why doesn't anyone in space understand figures of speech?

In his defense, she wasn't acting much differently than normal. Maybe a bit quieter in her comments, a bit less reactive to his teasing jabs. But nothing that really gave off the warning "I'M SICK AND POSSIBLY ABOUT TO COLLAPSE", so he'd decided to leave her alone as they entered the fuel stop's shady restaurant/bar combo, at least for the time being. He could approach her about it once they were safely back on the Milano, somehow crack past the "I-don't-need-anyone's-help" walls that she'd built up so expertly. He had certainly hoped he'd be able to- he'd be a pretty crappy… relationship… boyfriend… thing… if he didn't.

But, as seemed a common occurrence for the five companions, everything had gone to hell when some drunken idiot decided to make a few…choice…comments about Rocket. Which, of course, had led to the raccoon's rage, which led to the rage of the insult-throwing moron's companions, which naturally led to Groot's rage, which spread to Drax, to Gamora, to pretty much the entire establishment and left Peter half-torn between stepping up as leader and breaking it up or ripping the guy's head off himself. Quite sadly, but miles more enjoyably, he ended up slacking off at the leader bit.

So it wasn't exactly a battle, per say, just a particularly exciting bar brawl over Rocket's honor (or at least that's what he'd gathered from all the screaming-man, they needed to work on anger issues) and Gamora had really seemed fine. He was pretty sure sick people couldn't twist a guy's arm that far around his body, at least. But, as their luck would have it, five minutes into the battle and Gamora collapsed with a thunk to the floor, the thug she'd been about to decimate staring in disbelief.

It was kinda scary, how Peter's heart felt like it was going to race right out of his chest at that moment.

Thankfully, Groot decided at that point that going full-out rage-monster would be a good idea (they need to lead with that one more often), and in less than a minute he, Drax, and Rocket were the only life-forms in the bar not crumpled on the ground, moaning in pain.

Which was good, but Gamora was still on the ground, so not-so-great.

Which brings him to the present.

He reaches her in seconds, his heart in his throat, because this is the woman he loves and he does not throw around the word love lightly-

And then she blinks blearily at him, muttering out a "Wuzzgoin'on?" followed by an equally dizzy "I'm no' sick. Stop spinning the room."

Peter is half-torn between rolling his eyes and shaking her, yelling at her not to be so damn reckless (that's his job anyways), but settles for an exasperated

"Yes, you are sick."

"Noooooooo 'm not, Peter."

"Yes, you are," Rocket grumbled, coming up next to them. "You look like shit."

"Bad as she looks, there is no need to be that offensive," Drax interjects on her behalf. Peter stifles a laugh as Gamora tries to glare at them both, failing miserably as she glares at a spot six feet above their heads.

"I'm not. Stop yelling."

"I am Groot," Groot says, concern seeping through his tone.

"Yeah. Sorry, Gamora, but you are definitely certified ill."

"I'm fine," she protests, a glimmer of her normal strength in her voice. She begins to push herself shakily to her feet. "You see-"

She is cut off as her legs immediately give out beneath her and she collapses back to the ground. The dazedly confused look on her face almost has Peter laughing.

Almost. He's not that stupid.

"I'm thinkin' that's a no."

"You need to rest, friend." Drax says kindly, patting her shoulder.

"Preferably on the ship," Rocket mutters. "Star-lord, we gettin' out of here?"

"Yup," Peter says, anxious to get Gamora on the ship, at least to make her more comfortable. "We fueled up?"

"Groot's takin' care of it," he replies. Huh. Peter didn't even notice Groot leave.

"To the ship, then!" he commands, a bit too enthusiastically. He does love commanding.

Rocket pushes himself up, grabbing one of the fancier weapons off an unconscious alien's belt as they leave. Peter doesn't have the energy to argue with that one right now. Gamora is obviously not up to walking on her own, and Drax gives him a pointed look as he stands. One that clearly says "take care of your girlfriend, stupid". Which he is planning to, thank you very much.

So he pulls her towards him, the coldness of her skin reminding him horribly of the freezing vacuum of space just outside of Knowhere, just before he was sure he was going to die.

Right about the time he decided dying wouldn't be half so bad if it was next to Gamora, come to think of it.

Except then Gamora would be dead. And that was unacceptable. No can do. Not an option for the legendary Star-lord.

Shaking off the far-to-morbid thoughts, he slides an arm under her legs and sweeps her off her feet, pretty awesomely, if he says so himself.

Thankfully she's light enough to where it doesn't end in hideous disaster.

"You okay, babe?" he asks her as they walk towards the ship.

"Firs' of all, I'm gonna…slice off your head if you call me ba'e again," she mutters. Ah well. It was worth a try. "An' second, I thought you already decided I was an invalid."

Peter laughs. "Sick, yeah, but you, an invalid? Nah," he says as he adjusts his hold on her. "You're gonna be fine. We're gonna baby you and stuff, it'll be great. I'll even make you waffles in bed and read you poetry and all that sappy stuff."

"Ha!" she snorts. "Baby me. I'd like t'…see you try."

Apparently, Gamora does very much enjoy babying, because an hour later she is comfortably tucked into his bed (being the most comfortable, of course, there's no other reason that that), drowsy from the medicine but overall looking quite pleased at all the attention she is getting. Rocket, who has pretty much turned into the resident makeshift-doctor, much to his chagrin, diagnoses it as simple fever left unchecked far too long- he has a pointed glare for Gamora at that one- but fortunately seems to know exactly which meds she needs (thank the stars he'd finally restocked the Milano's medical supplies), and gives them to her along with a very long and swear-punctuated lecture.

But then again this is Rocket, and this is how he cares.

Drax, while less capable medically, seems to know a good deal about this freaking-amazing smelling tea-drink-thing, which stops her coughing if anything, and Groot is…well, Groot. Just having Groot nearby makes everything better, especially when he does light shows for you with his floaty-glowy things.

Which leaves him in an awkward position, seeing as he doesn't know jack about medicine and can't really do much but stand there.

Fine, it's an abysmal failure on his part, but it's one he intends to fix.

One by one the others eventually file out of the room, leaving him and Gamora alone. She gives him a pointed look and he's at her side immediately, clambering onto the bed with her as she burrows against him.

"So yeah, I'm sorry but I'm completely useless-"

"You're dumb," she cuts him off sleepily, curling up against his chest, leaving his arm resting lightly around her shoulders.

"Well you're…dumber," he replies, quite intelligently. He is rewarded by Gamora's slight laughter. Which becomes much less rewarding as it turns into a fit of coughing, but it passes in seconds, and at least she looks happier.

"Now read me this poetry of yours," she says to him fixedly.

"Ah," he says. She remembers. Dangit. "I was hoping you'd forgotten that."

"You…wish," she breathes out through sniffles.

"Maybe we can just cuddle instead?" he tries vainly.

"You promised."

Well, she is right on that one. And embarrassing as this is likely to be, he has not yet mastered the art of saying 'no' to her pouting face yet. It'll be a miracle if he ever does.

"Fiiiiiiiiiineeee," he sighs petulantly. "But you're not allowed to bring this up with anyone else. Ever. It'll ruin my image."

"What image," she mutters into his side. He rolls his eyes, choosing to let that one slide. He can be mature when he needs to.

Sort of.

As they are already lying on his bed, he knows exactly where small book with his mother's poem (because even if she didn't write it the poem will never not be hers) printed inside is, the worn-down and dog-eared pages one of the few remnants he has left of earth, and the even fewer remnants he has left of his mother. It's not as if he hasn't read this but one time in all the years since she's died (he's only read it about five thousand and three), but glancing at the small print always gives him a dizzying sense of vertigo as he is thrown back to his seven year-old self, curled up against his mother in bed as she reads over the sounds of a storm.

"Peter?" Gamora's concerned (and slightly congested) voice cuts through the haze of memory. He shakes his head, blinking his eyes clear as he wishes he could blink back the emotions.

"Sorry. Just- it's my mom's old book, so-yeah, sorry."

"I do not understand why you have such a fixation on apologizing when you've done nothing wrong," Gamora says softly. "It is understandable. If you do not want to read it-"

"No," he says firmly. He gives her a shaky smile. "I want to read it. To you."

"Alright then," she says with a small smile that bolsters him onwards. He takes a breath.

"So it's called "The Old Astronomer", and it's this by this old earth poet-Sarah something- and it's kinda confusing, y'know, language wise, 'cause some of the ear-Terran things may not make sense, but it's got some really good stuff, too-very badass stuff."

"I'm sure, Peter," she mutters. "Now read."

"Alright, alright," he concedes. Then, clearing his throat, he smoothes over the old pages with his thumb and reads.

"Reach me down my Tych-tycho Brahe-Brae? Braw? Brahey?"

"Just keep reading, Peter."

"Fine, fine. -I would know him when we meet, when I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet."

He drops all humorous pretense, reading the words with deliberate care, slow and steady as he reaches for his mother's calming tone, the soft, soothing timber she once read with that had never failed at putting him to sleep.

"He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how,

We are working to completion, working on from then to now."

The familiar words come readily to his lips as he subconsciously falls into the rhythmic pacing of the poem, and it occurs to him that in all his years in space, all his escapades and shams of relationships, he has never felt quite so vulnerable as he does now.

"Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,

Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,

And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,

And the oblo-obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you."

But, he thinks, as Gamora weighs comfortably against his side, her eyes drifting slowly closed with the smallest of contented smiles on her face, being vulnerable is far less painful than he thought it'd be. With her, at least.

"But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,

You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,

What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;

What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her mere-meretric-meretricious smiles-"

There are the words that are just as complicated to him as they were near two decades ago, but Gamora does not seem to mind his stuttering, the faintest of sleepy but amused smirks coloring her face as he stumbles over the words.

"You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,

But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate,"

Gamora is all but asleep now, her eyes fluttering occasionally as she breathes softly against his chest, hair falling loosely against her face, and in that moment Peter loves her so damn much it hurts.

There is more to the poem, from what he remembers, but he decides to end it on his mother's favorite line, the one she so often repeated to him when he was the sick one. It seems fitting.

"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;

I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."