[His hands drop to his sides, and he feels a new trill of grief travel up his spine. It can't compare to Quill's, no, but he's reminded of failing his friend — someone who acted motherly and kind and stern, who gave him shoes when he couldn't afford them, who tried to figure out what was wrong with him on that tram (and he couldn't say you, you dying is what's wrong). His hands drop to his sides and he stares back while his expression settles into something apologetic.]

I — she... wouldn't want you out here, throwing yourself into fights when you, when you can't even stand up straight. C'mon, Quill. This won't make you feel any better. Just... Please? Let people help you. I can help.