There was no good reactions to all of this. This was against the laws of nature; no one should deal with grief and then have them back again. There was no protocol for this, no shimmering guideline to help Peter regain some of himself back. Yet, here he was, shifting, trembling and moving, touching. What else could he do than to ensure he wasn't dreaming or lost it?
He moved away from her, a few steps in the opposing direction, before he came back to her. His face had it written all over him; the inability to express what he was feeling. This was all foreign, new and old, exhausting. Despite his plea about his father, his mother merely complimented him, stared lovingly at him like she never left.
It made him angry. It made him angry that he had to live years without her, and she was back. He'd buried his mother in his own way, loved her from each breath he took -- And here she was. Living, breathing, staring at him like she did in the years he tried to forget on Earth.
The anger wasn't subjected to a violent outburst, merely the pursed lips and the extending of his arms. His grip moved to them, holding her in place as he began to crumple under the weight of the unexplainable, his head dropping against her shoulder and his knees bent as he felt like he was five years old again.
"I didn't grow up great, mom, but I grew up alright-- That counts, right?"
He couldn't lie to her. He was a thief, brought up by thieves, brought up by the dark and the betraying. But he was happy. He was happy where he was now, even if most wouldn't.
"I've even been really heroic. I'm beating up actual bad people and not... Not bullies who-- Who killed frogs or--"
He knew he was babbling. He'd look like a snivelling mess in front of any other Guardian, or anyone that knew him. But how could he not be? How could he digest this all without feeling heavy nostalgia and the old pain resurface?
Quill may have been half human, but these feelings were the most human he'd ever felt.