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Scene: Eclector Bridge; morning shift.
Isla, half-dozing over the nav console, propped on Kraglin’s bony hip.
Horuz, scowling at a convoluted string of raw code that looks like an algebraic equation ornamented with too many punctuation marks and the occasional frowny-face.
Jax, picking his nose by the comms.
Yondu ambles in, halfway round a yawn, and cuffs the kid’s head to remind him not to step on his heels. It’s a motion made more of habit than necessity. For once, there’s no bootcap jabbing his ankle every other step. But Peter’s usually trailing at close-ish proximity; when they’re wandering round ship he likes to be immersed in the two-meter diameter bubble that follows Yondu wherever he goes, the one Peter has deemed safe from hungry crewmembers.
He’ll be in reach. And Yondu figures he’ll have done something recently that’s worthy of a smack – so he extends his range, sweeping his arm to the back and side.
His blue fingers card air. Nothing.
That’s odd.
Realizing that he’s doing a weird flapping half-version of the boy’s favorite funky-chicken dance, Yondu glowers at his audience and stomps to his chair. So the brat overslept. Now he owes him two thumps – one for making him look stupid, and one for… whatever it was that he might have done in the first place.
“Got some live prey on the radar,” shouts Zqo, who’s hovering by Morlug’s shoulder and switching between sign language and some translator-compatible form of Shi’ar. Yondu grins and claps his hands.
“All hands to stations. Block our rad-footprint and go hover in the shadow of that moon – we’ll rob these suckers blind.”
________________________________________
Suffice to say, they miss lunch. Lunch is usually when Peter slopes away from the duty he’s been assigned to, to sit cross-legged at Yondu’s feet and gum whatever slops Shorro’s churning out that day to semi-digestible mush. But the booty, as always, takes priority over niggly little things like eating. So Yondu doesn’t find Peter’s lack of presence conspicuous, as he jettisons his shuttle from the Eclector’s front-facing hangar bay and silently locks her onto the merchant vessel’s hull.
He even manages not to crash. Much.
Kraglin appraises the new dent in the hold, unimpressed. “You been flyin’ this thing how many years now, boss?”
That was an age jab. Was that an age jab?
Yondu narrows his eyes at him and slaps the decoupling lock on his belt, pushing out of the pilot’s seat to appraise his assembled team. “Alright,” he tells them. “We got us some basic trader security – we blocked the automatic approach alarm and aligned our forcefields so they ain’t noticed the breach. But the moment we start cuttin’, someone’s gonna pull the alarm. So let’s do this quick-like, yeah?”
Two more shuttles dock, one on either side. They manage the task with considerably less clanging; Kraglin raises an eyebrow in Yondu’s direction, which is studiously ignored.
“Horuz in.”
“Isla in.”
Another five shuttles magnetize, forming a wonky starfish. Airlocks seal onto bare steel in a rush of adhesive foam.
“Ready?” asks Horuz from the ship to their left. There’s affirmatives from Isla, Jax, Thrabba, Wallins and Dawbo, as well as a confident grunt from Morlug. Yondu strides to the airlock, through the gaggle of Ravagers readying their weapons in the shuttle’s main compartment – all of whom sidestep, duck, weave, or dart out of his way, sometimes at the expense of each other’s balance. He opens it to reveal a rubbery tunnel, beyond which is the frigid vacuum. There’s already frost creeping along its joints - if they take longer than a couple of hours, it’ll be too brittle to take their weight on the retreat.
“Ready,” he answers. Then to that big dumb lug who’s hauling the cutter – “Be careful with that thing, woudya? Slice this rubber and ya won’t have to worry about me putting my arrow through yer throat.”
That’s a message that’ll sink through the thickest cranium. If it doesn’t, Yondu’ll happily make good on his word and nail it there by force.
The lug nods. He waits for Yondu to step aside before advancing. The fat-bottomed hunk of industrial-grade laser cutting equipment they’d lifted from a Nova industry plant a few years back has been welded to a red-painted shouldermount. He wields it like it’s made of papier mâché.
There’s a groan of extending hydraulics. Feet emerge around the saw and clamp magnetically into place. When the lug steps back, the machine is suspended; held out improbably horizontal on spindly spider-legs that designate the parameters of the hole through which they’ll make their rush. The top looks just low enough that Kraglin’ll have to duck. Yondu grins, rapping knuckles on the big guy’s back for him to pull the lever.
“Y’all might wanna cover your ears,” he drawls. Then, into his wristpiece – “Go get ‘em, boys.”
________________________________________
The journey back is saturated with whooping, hollering, and a general raucousness that’s as infectious as it’s noisy.
“Sheesh,” says Grawg, operating the shuttle-bay rigging controls. “Could almost hear ya through the vacuum.”
Yondu tosses him a piece from the merchant’s stock in answer – fucking fresh produce, grown on ship via hydroponics; they’re gonna feast like fucking kings. Grawg’s so eager to catch the mauve carrot that he releases the joystick and lurches out of his seat. The crane grinds testily above. “Thanks, cap’n!”
“Don’t break my fucking ship!” calls Yondu in answer, already leading the crowd of cheering Ravagers onwards. They’ll get a bunch of rookies to file stock later – might even put Peter on duty, seeing as the brat couldn’t be bothered to come see ‘em home. Grunt-work’s what he deserves.
Kraglin too.
“Don’t break your ship no more than it’s already broken,” his first mate mutters. Then obligingly says “ow” when Yondu elbows him.
“Alright you lot,” he says, once they’re at the fork that divides the tunnel into two hexagonal chutes, one tributary rising Bridge-ways while the other plunges to the engine deck. “Fall out.” Isla’s already showing off, juggling five apples at once. When Yondu snatches one out of the air she doesn’t pause, so he tosses it to Kraglin and grabs two more. Boy’ll only bitch if they leave him out. “M’ gonna head. Check inventory before shut-eye.” Which is shorthand for make sure Peter ain’t pissed off anyone too liable to snap his spine while I’m off-ship. “Kraglin?”
Kraglin, a decent quarter of the apple already stuffed in his gob, slurps out a juicy “Yes sir!” and hurries to catch up.
Isla’s juggling stock’s replenished (with Morlug’s assistance) by a swede, a turnip, and something that looks akin to a blue-skinned banana. Thus the others are too busy watching her to notice when Yondu smacks Kraglin’s ass and whispers “Good work, back there,” into his ear.
________________________________________
Peter’s not on the Bridge. Yondu scans the unfamiliar faces of his skeleton crew – all of whom start working double-time when they feel his gaze on them, setting off a couple of minor alarms in the process. No thatch of scruffy ginger. No oversized coat – which, at twelve, Peter is starting to fill out, although he’s still got a long way to go. No annoying voice nagging him for his apple.
Apparently the brat’s finally found someone less irascible to bug.
Yondu smiles. Takes a victorious bite of Peter’s share of the plunder – his own having been finished on the journey up – and, when Kraglin makes eyes at him, forks over the last quarter to share.
“M’off to bed,” he declares to the galaxy at large, stretching the crick out of his neck. Then, to Kraglin: “Think ya could grab me a cleaning cloth for the arrow? Got a bit messy today.”
“Can’t have that rustin’,” Kraglin agrees – although they both know that cleaning cloth is one of the many codes for come to my quarters and make the two-backed beast until the morning alarm goes off or one of us passes out – and that a blast of radiation’d have Yondu’s arrow good as new in seconds anyway.
Kraglin kicks a waste chute open. He scrolls through the holo-control until he’s located the biomatter converter, then takes a last hungry lick at the apple core – while leering, with all due un-subtlety, at Yondu’s crotch. Yondu snorts.
“Close that hatch before ya stink up the whole Bridge,” he says. Kraglin gives the apple one final sultry slurp, drops it to clatter into the ship’s rumbling belly, and obeys.
________________________________________
Next morning, they’re halfway to the outworld system where they’ve scheduled their next series of jobs. The rest of the fleet’s scattered across the quadrant, all within an hour’s light-travel in case of Horde ambush. A few enterprising Aces have blasted out into the wider galaxy in pursuit of some prize or another – but they’re all trusted solo operatives, and the prizes are specific and client-requested: too valuable for Yondu to go blabbing about to the majority of his crew.
One day, Peter’s gonna be one of those Aces. Kid’s already a mean hand with an M-ship joystick, although any Nova officer’d go into seizures at the sight of his tiny pink face peeping over the dash. If Yondu can drum all that blasted sentiment out of him by the time he’s legally able to fly, he’ll be a fine Ravager. Might even be worth the initial investment - what with keeping him alive all these years, and forgoing his paycheque-on-delivery, and such.
Speaking of Peter, Yondu now owes him three smacks.
Don’t the kid know that he’s supposed to come barging in at some ungodly hour of the morning, when the galleon’s scheduled for nothing more than the dreary rush of lightspeed? Otherwise Yondu and Kraglin’ll snore through the breakfast buzzer. Then they gotta suffer Thrabba’s embarrassed fluttering when he comes to check that there hasn’t been another mutiny, and they answer the door in ripped shirts and underpants, with hickeys up their necks.
Yondu punches the palm-lock, slamming the door in Thrabba’s face and cutting off the twaddle of apologies.
“Where’s that fucking kid?” he growls. Kraglin, unphased by this latest blunder, dumps the torn shirt on the pile to be patched and steals another from Yondu’s pull-out closet. He pinches a neckscarf while he’s at it, fastening it over the purpling evidence.
“Who knows,” he mumbles through the fabric. “Prob’bly got stuck in the vents again, or somethin’.”
Yondu crowds him up against the doorjamb so he can pick at the knot. Then, before Kraglin can initiate another round of fucking, pointedly winds the scarf around his own neck. He smirks at Kraglin’s pout and pats his cheek. “You’d better go fish him out then, hadn’t ya?”
Kraglin’s expression falls. “Aw, sir –“
“Perhaps that’ll teach ya not to nip when I tell you not to.” Yondu overrides the protest that he’s just as heinous an offender, and saunters off to find some clean-ish clothes to steam while he’s in the shower. Sure, worming through the ducts on your belly ain’t the funnest of tasks for a full-grown man, especially when anyone larger than Peter is liable to get crammed around a corner joist and drown next time there’s an oil leak. But what the heck. Kraglin’s been giving him sass recently.
And if Yondu’s ass twinges as he swings down the ladder shaft nearest the wash-rack, it only adds weight to his first mate’s deservedness.
________________________________________
Kraglin returns three hours later: blacked up with so much grime that the lovebites are indiscernible from his squiggly black tattoos, expression thoroughly irritated, and sans-Terran brat.
“He ain’t there.”
“You check the engine vents?” calls Yondu, who’s allocated himself a precious hour of off-time, and has taken up residence on the sill of a high porthole, ten metres up a sheer wall in the hold that houses the training simulators. How he got there is anyone’s guess. Kraglin has some idea – boss keeps shtum about the extent of what he can and can’t do; but Kraglin has the distinct memory of that time a squadron of rival smugglers had been sniping them from the trees on a dumpy forest-moon in the process of terraforming. A shot had nicked his ear. Rather than whistling the perpetrator down, Yondu had toed off his boots and run up the trunk.
Nope. Boss ain’t coming down until he fancies, and Kraglin sure as hell ain’t struggling up. So he starts searching the floor for something light enough to throw.
“Of course I checked there, I ain’t stupid ¬–“
There’s always gubbins littering the Eclector’s corridors, despite that you can smack every other panel on the damn ship and have it fold into a waste chute. Kraglin soon locates what he needs – a handful of nuts, discarded from some malfunctioning piece of equipment or another, and slimed over with chunky black grease.
Kraglin rattles them in his hand. He selects the weightiest, and flicks it to bounce off the glass above Yondu’s forehead. Sure, Yondu’s the archer – but he’s got his wacky whistling ways, and can shoot targets in front and behind with a single shot. Kraglin’s the knife-thrower. He’s got the aim.
However, while it’s tempting to lob his nuggets at the captain’s nose, Kraglin is, true to his word, not stupid. There’s a limit to Yondu’s lenience, and the margins on that limit vacillate on the best of days. Best not risk it.
As it is, Yondu blinks at the metal chit as it pings off the porthole an inch from his eyeball. He doesn’t flinch, but calmly informs Kraglin that if he does that again, he’ll be searching those vents until either Peter materializes or he dies of starvation.
“Naw,” says Kraglin, stuffing the rest of the nuts in his pocket. Then, before Yondu can assume he’s contradicting him – because there’s no better way to have him make good on a threat, no matter how outlandish – “Peter’d sneak me food. Damn soft brat.”
“Peter’s the one you’re supposed to be finding,” Yondu reminds him. Unclasps his hands from the back of his skull and rolls onto his side, staring through his reflection into the cold-lit abyss. The flecks and streaks of the lightspeed drive are quantum ribbons, thinner than his mind can comprehend but stretching into infinity fore and aft. “S’weird, not seeing him for so long. Don’t ya think?”
There’s something… tentative there. Probing. Almost – and Kraglin practically boggles at the thought – worried.
“Ain’t nothing, sir,” he says, after a long pause. “He’ll just be muckin’ about with the rookies. Kid needs friends his age anyway.”
“Hm.” Yondu’s chewing his lip; he can see it in the glass.
“Hey, if you need him for something –“ Careful, careful, he’s gotta be careful; not too knowing in his tone. “ – Ya could always just comm him, y’know?”
There’s a pause. Then Yondu flops onto his back again. One heel skids off the smooth metal sill, which had, until his arrival, been painted with a good decade’s worth of dust - but he lets it dangle without a care as he speaks the damning words. “Hey, why don’t ya check the engine block again?”
________________________________________
Yondu keeps his posture relaxed until Kraglin’s skulked off, griping under his breath and slicking gungey soot from his Mohawk. Then he pushes up, thigh clunking the pane, back against the frame’s nearest half and boot soles pressing on the opposite. He opens his wristband. Jabs Peter’s name, second-from-top –
“Boy! You dodging scrubs again? Don’t think I won’t find you –“
Then stops. Shuts his mouth. Stares at the winking icon that proclaims Peter’s comm receiver’s out of range of the internal signal system, as static pops and crackles from the tiny speakers.
Peter’s comm system’s not in range.
Yondu hasn’t seen the damn brat since they’d made that fuel stop on Knowhere half a week ago, and now Peter’s comm system is not in range.
He swears.
Forgoing scrambling down the wall in favour of jumping, he smacks into the ground hard enough to make his knees jar. Shit. Knowhere? All kinds of crap could happen to a lil’ Terran on Knowhere! Slavers, traffickers, prostitution rings… Exotic pet trade…
What the hell had that brat been thinking? Getting himself lost like that!
“Kraglin!” he roars into the comm, already storming for the hangers. “Z-deck! Meet me, now!”
________________________________________
“I can’t believe you lost him!”
“I didn’t lose him! He’s your kid!”
“Why is he always my kid when he does somethin’ dumb?”
Kraglin’s chokes on the response that comes natural – because three guesses who he gets it from – and settles around the more neutral: “If anything, it’s his own damn fault.”
Yondu can’t deny that. He tries craning over his shoulder to see the shuttle out of dock – then remembers that there’s no rear-facing window and that he has to use the mirrors, and treats Kraglin’s reflection to a baleful glower. “He’ll be cleanin’ all them chutes and vent ducts when he’s back. With his toothbrush.”
________________________________________
“Alright,” Yondu bellows as the shuttle hatches reel apart. “I got me a problem!”
Port’s a skinny promenade. It’s cluttered on both sides with rusting, leaning stacks of carrier crates and temperamental crane-lifts that wheeze and choke through their duties at a snail’s pace until the crews give up and haul their cargo themselves. There’s shuttles at every dock – Yondu checks off various insignia as he scans the jetty, noting rebel factions, fanatic cults, smuggling rings and even the odd Nova corvette-class. The latter are stamped with call-sign codes that designate them as belonging to guards from the Kyln. Yondu nurtures a sneer. Corrupt a-holes, the lot of ‘em – but they, at least, ain’t likely to kidnap snivelly Terrans.
Once he’s got everyone’s attention, Yondu stomps down the gangway. He starts his prowl along the jetty, Kraglin slinking behind; they meet the eye of each skeevy merchant and bounty hunter, each runaway slave and outlaw, each sneering Hordesman and each cringing Cartel stockrunner. Some look away and some glare back. But none dare challenge them. Yondu’s expression is taut and feral, promising blood -
“Where is he?”
“Who?” asks the nearest Hordesman. He folds an extra pair of arms over his swollen belly. There’s a scar slicing his underlip and he’s got a face that’s effortlessly callous – Yondu scans it into his wristpiece and discovers him to be a nobody Midshipman whose death-slash-mauling is unlikely to spark a gang war. Perfect.
Smiling, he alters his course. He hops the dock gates – half-melted from a take-off that had been overenthusiastic, drunk, or both – and leans casual-like against the H-ship’s dirty hull.
“Terran boy. Yae-tall –“ As demonstrated by an upheld hand. Peter’s actually got a couple of inches on Yondu’s estimate, but Kraglin knows better to point that out when there’s others around. He makes do with lurking in Yondu’s shadow and fingering the knife in his sleeve when the Hordesmen’s companions close the circle behind them.
Scarmouth considers. His upper set of elbows rest on the cooling engine rod; steam hisses from under heat-proof leather. “Nah,” he says finally. “Can’t say I recall seein’ nobody of that description.”
Yondu’s grin grows. He flicks the trailing end of his trenchcoat off the gleaming arrowhead. “Perhaps you’d like some help rememberin’ –“
“I know him.”
A voice sears through the droning hubbub of the port like plasma on biotic tissue. Kraglin pivots – to see a pink-skinned Xandarian girl, of a shade with Morlug, standing in a bow so demure it can only have been beaten into her. Her frock’s ice-white, frothing around her thighs like sea-foam. Far too clean for this place. Yondu’s smile goes from menacing to charming.
“Who’re you, sweetheart?”
Like he doesn’t already know. Her name’s incidental. She’s one of the Collector’s girls; that’s all that matters. She’s trained for civility and welcoming-purposes, to accommodate the Collector’s guests in whatever way they please. Aloof. Pristine. Untouchable – at least, to the scum who frequent this level of the outpost.
“Janeif,” she says. Nods to another girl – of a shade, but a fraction shorter and with a more defiant tilt to her chin. “This is Carina.”
Carina’s curtsy is executed perfectly. But her voice has a touch too much excitement as she informs him – “Your boy is with my master currently. We are to reassure you that no harm has come to him, and to invite you to his dwelling for tea.”
Yondu thins his eyes at her until she realizes she’s almost-smiling. She schools the expression immediately, stance stiffening into something professional and cold. He gives her the slightest of nods. Can’t have no one reporting that the Collector’s girls are enjoying the rare privilege of roaming Knowhere’s knotty labyrinth; they’d never see the lights of the nebula again.
“We accept,” he says. Carina curtsies in answer, Janeif following a timed heartbeat behind. They both rise and swivel, leading the way with skirts fluttering high on their long pink legs.
Not one eye dares follow them. Except Yondu who, vaulting the rail with a parting sneer to the surly hordesmen, settles ten paces behind and treats himself to the perfect view.
Kraglin scoffs under his breath. Yondu, snickering, doesn’t avert his gaze as Carina wanders a little close to the wobbling heat haze welling up from a vent. Her skirt billows like a soft silk parachute. But even Yondu doesn’t have the self-confidence – or lack of self-preservation – to wolf-whistle.
________________________________________
The Collector, as promised, is waiting for them.
So is Peter.
He’s not in a cage. Thank fuck. Not that the Collector’d be interested in him, given he can lift himself a Terran – even from Peter’s backwater system on the other side of the galaxy – on any day it suited him.
Stupid Ancients and their stupid superpowers.
Yondu swings himself onto the proffered chair, ruffles Peter’s hair, and scoots out the stool on his other side with his boot. Kraglin sits with rather more wariness, keeping watch on the girls as they flank them like silent pink sentinels.
Wise lad. Hospitality ain’t the only skill these lasses excel at.
But anyway. It’s time to get this show on the road. This auction, really – Yondu ain’t under no pretenses; he knows what this is. There’s no way the Collector would keep Peter from the denizens of Knowhere-scum who have eat a sentient life form at the top of their bucket-lists; not unless he knew he was getting something out of it. Oh no. There’ll be a price – there’s always a price. The question is, whether Peter’s worth paying it.
“So,” Yondu says. “You got somethin’ that belongs to me.”
Peter ducks out from under his hand to sip at his tea. The china cup – Earth style, of course – clinks as he lowers it to the saucer. Judging by the lack of steam, the liquid’s long-cold. Apparently they’re later than expected; Yondu waits until he’s certain any vestiges of guilt have been eradicated from his expression before lifting his eyes to the Collector.
The Collector doesn’t look up, neatly cubing a slice of crumbly white-gold Victoria Sponge.
“And yet, it seems, you abandoned it.”
Whoops. Well, he can’t argue. Not his fault, though, that the kid’s so small and stupid and easily left behind.
Peter doesn’t seem to agree. In fact, he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniffle. Yondu kicks his shin in warning – but he can’t afford to be distracted, and his focus remains on the man in front of him.
The Collector is slight. Short. Adroitly garbed in the most garish green pantsuit Yondu’s ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon, with a trailing mink scarf bundled around his throat and hair bunched up in twenty purple rollers. On anyone else, such an array of styles would be ridiculous. This man – creature – manages to make them look dangerous. His apathetic demeanor is perfect, not a single crack. But Yondu’s under no illusions. Collector ain’t so much disinterested as he’s dissembling, and it’s a foolish and short-lived captain who underestimates him.
However, it seems that the Ancient’s got it into his head to play civil today. It doesn’t ever do to neglect him in his little games, not when he’s a Regular – so Yondu leans over the table and helps himself to a biscuit. Pushes one at Kraglin too. His first mate eyes it mistrustfully. He doesn’t bite down until the Collector gestures Carina forwards - who nibbles delicately on a macaroon and waits five demonstrative seconds, turning her face to show there’s no froth, before bobbing and returning to her place.
“Boys,” says the Collector, shaking his head in profound disappointment. “You think I would poison you? Such excellent employees as yourself?”
“Ain’t your employees,” Yondu’s quick to remind him, spraying biscuit crumbs. “Just work the odd job for ya, when your pay ain’t pittance.”
“Hm.” The Collector carves a forkful of icing. He lowers his eyelids in languid pleasure, and pinces it between silvery teeth. “Whatever you say, I’m sure.”
Alright. Yondu’s had enough. He drops the rest of the biscuit in his pocket for later and wipes his hand on Peter’s shoulder, before flattening the broad blue palm over it and pulling the boy into his side. Peter almost falls off his chair in shock, but manages to retain his grip on the teacup. Just.
“How much you want for him?”
For Peter, who’s holding his saucer on his lap between trembling hands. Like he’s afraid what’ll happen if it’s chipped. Who knows what kinda wacky shit he’s seen, after four days with the Collector? The man goes through his girls like they’re an addict’s Huffer snuff; he’s got stricter rules than the goddamn Nova corps, and Yondu doubts he’ll have been forgiving to a pesky Terran who struggles to keep his mouth shut at the best of times.
Speaking of… Peter has yet to say a word. It’s unnerving, But when Yondu squeezes his shoulder, the quivering stops. Peter draws an unsteady breath and deposits his chinaware safely on the lace doily.
The Collector pares off another moist sliver of cake. He rolls it across his tongue, carnally luxuriant; but his drooping eyes are cold and dark, too slippery to pin a read.
“Who said I wanted anything?”
Yondu studies him in futile assessment. Then abruptly scrapes back his chair. Wood squawks over metal.
“Alright. We’ll be off then. Thanks for not stuffing him or nothing; I know Terrans ain’t worth much to you.”
And there. That bright glint of awareness in the Collector’s eyes.
He knows. He knows that Yondu knows. He knows that Yondu knows, and doubtless, if he’s been entertaining the brat all this time, listening to him gabble on about Earth and music and poor dead carriers who’d begged him to take their hand, he knows that Yondu has yet to inform his charge of just from whence he came. Because it sure as hell wasn’t no two-Terran coupling.
Yondu swallows. He steers Peter towards the exit, motioning for Kraglin to take point. He clears his throat once he’s sure the two of them are out the door, half-turning into the purple-lit cage room and ignoring the mournful scrape of fingers down the inside of dusty glass.
“I’ll owe ya one, I guess,” he says. The Collector’s smile is sickly-satisfied.
“Oh, you are too kind.”
Yondu stalks back to his ship on heavy boots, and tries to flout the niggling feeling that a pair of thick-lidded eyes is watching him go.
________________________________________
As soon as the shuttle’s creaked out of port he surrenders the controls to Kraglin – who’s all too eager to spare them another stint in the repair-bay – and goes to deliver his three smacks.
They never land.
Peter’s cuddled up on one of the padded seats that doubles as a bunk (or an operating table, or a mortician’s slab, dependent on the mission). He’s got his earphones on and is hugging his knees to his chest as if they’ll detach and float away the moment he relinquishes his grip.
Yondu eases him out of the foetal curl with a toecap, inserted far more gently than Peter deserves. He waits until the boy’s upright and has hooked his headphones round his neck in preparation of a lecture. Yondu can’t be bothered to cook one up, so he makes do with translating the promised punches into hard-nailed flicks. One to the forehead, then two quick shots to the ear while Peter’s reeling - don’t never say he can’t be merciful.
The brat doesn’t appreciate his tenderness though: “Ow! What was that for!”
Yondu counts off the crimes one by one, starting with a big blue middle finger that’s jammed in Peter’s face. “One, ya made me flap about Bridge looking for yer sorry ass. Two, you didn’t wake me up when you was s’posed to. Three, you made me send Kraglin into the vents after you and he got dirt all over my bed.”
Peter rubs his smarting nose. But the tactic’s successful, and that awfully blank expression morphs into something more prissy and familiar. “Hey, I wasn’t on board for any of that! How’re they my fault?”
Yondu flicks him again. “Exactly.”
“Ow!”
“Yeah, that’s for runnin’ off in the first place.”
“I didn’t run off!” Peter counters. He looks so adamant about it that Yondu sneers on automatic, releasing Peter to prop his hands on his hips.
“Oh yeah? How the hell’d you end up in the Collector’s display hall then? Damn, boy, don’t you know what he coulda done to you –“
“I was left,” finishes Peter. His chin droops down to kiss his chest, and he repeats the verdict in a smaller voice. “I was left.”
Yondu jaw works soundlessly. Then he pulls himself together, and plops onto the berth besides Peter with a huff. He doesn’t bother denying it. “I told ya to be on ship by noon.”
“And I got lost!” Peter’s face, what little of it Yondu can see from his angle – kid’s keeping it turned low, the stubborn brat – has that awful blotchiness to it that impends waterworks. Yondu could groan. Damn, he thought he’d bullied that outta him by now. C’mon, damn boy’s twelve. Practically an adult!
Peter is at least wise enough not to let any tears fall in Yondu’s presence. He scuffs a sleeve under his nostrils, bringing away mucus, and wipes it miserably on the cushion. When he speaks again, the story emerges jumbled, fast as jets from a fuel canister that’s been under pressure too long.
“I got lost! And I thought you’d be lookin’ for me, so I stayed where I was because that’s what mom always told me to do, but then you didn’t come, so I waited some more, but you didn’t come, so I asked a stranger where the dock was and they said they’d take me; but they didn’t take me to the dock, they took me to some scary bar, and there was a nice lady there who told me I was pretty and a mean lady who said I was too dangerous to sell because I was a Terran and they’re supposed to be under Nova protection or something; so then they left me there too; but then I saw some Horde goons and figured they’d have to head to the dock at some point, so I tailed ‘em, like you showed me, and they never once spotted me and I got back and I was so happy and I thought you’d be waiting but you weren’t there and –“
Aw shit. Yeah, Peter’s too old to be a-weeping and a-wailing every time he gets himself into a crisis. But this is different; the kid’s practically epileptic with the force of restraining his sobs. Yondu ain’t never one for sentiment, but the boy’s gonna vibrate apart if he keeps this up.
Sighing, he hooks an arm around Peter’s quaking shoulders and pulls him to smear snot and tears down the front of his coat.
“S’alright. S’alright. You’re back home now.”
“Home,” repeats Peter. And then, for some reason, cries harder, his fists hard little knots against Yondu’s leathers. Yondu rolls his eyes and lets him get it out.
“You can wash my outfit when you’re done,” he tells him, resting his hand atop that springy garden of curls. Peter’s never listened to him, no matter how many times Yondu recommends he shaves it; even though hair is stupid and annoying and only gets greasy and stuck on things when you’re crawling through tight spaces. But Yondu’s gotta admit, it feels kinda nice to pet. Although the thought of Peter using the Collector’s conditioner is too weird to contemplate. “And the ducts. Right little shithead you are, makin’ us all worry…”
“You’re the only one who worried, sir!” hollers Kraglin from the cabin. Yondu arranges himself more comfortably under Peter’s sob-wracked form. This is gonna take a while.
“Say one more word,” he calls, “and you’ll be joinin’ him on scrubs.”
“Aw sir, not again…”
“That were four words.”
“Sir!”
“Five.”
The rest of the trip’s made in silence, punctuated only by snores as Peter decides he’s had enough of using Yondu as a handkerchief and makes him his personal pillow instead. Kraglin docks gentle as a gull gliding in to nest, then pads through the hold to join them. He points at his mouth. Yondu grants permission with a regal nod.
“Want a hand carryin’ him, sir?”
“Nah.” Yondu squishes Peter’s pink cheek, making him snort and grumble into his thigh. “Y’know what he’s like when we wake him up.”
“Teenage years a-comin’,” Kraglin agrees. Then gazes wistfully at the spot between Yondu and the wall until Yondu shifts to make room.
“C’mon then.”
They wind up with three of them stuffed on one bench. They’re designed for two regular-build bipedal models to sit on, and only one to lay – but Yondu figures Peter’s too small to count, and he’s leaning on Kraglin anyway. They pile horizontally. Peter’s sprawled over Yondu’s lap and Yondu’s over Kraglin’s (who, with his back up against the wall, will be skinnier than ever after a few hours being compressed under his captain’s bulk. But he’d asked for it, so he can suck it up.) Yondu wriggles contentedly against his chest, heaving Peter under his armpits so he doesn’t slip into awkward territory.
“He’ll be out an hour or two, I reckon,” he says, voice hoarser than usual in his effort to keep it soft. Kraglin hums. He’s a little pancaked, but not enough to actively bitch. When Yondu lays his head back, he kisses his implant. That feels good. A little too good. Yondu twists far enough to shoot him a glare. “No.”
“Not even a little –?“
Yondu shifts the Terran pointedly. “No.”
“Like he ain’t walked in on us enough times –“
“Yeah, but we still oughta make an effort not to get caught.”
“You could be quiet –“
“Kraglin,” Yondu interrupts, clonking his implant on the bridge of his first mate’s nose. “Go the fuck to sleep.”
________________________________________
They’re woken up by Grawg activating the lift and hoisting them to hang off the ceiling. All three of them tumble off the bench as the craft jiggles and sways like it’s flying through turbulence.
“Quit it!” Yondu roars over the comm.
After an interrupted nap his voice is croakier than ever, laced with a hint of whistle – Grawg squeaks and fumbles the controls, almost dropping them. In the end, they sit out the wobbling until Grawg’s got them stowed in the shuttle-hanger, suspended in a latticed hammock of antigrav straps. Once Yondu’s certain they’re not due any more stomach-turning rolls, he snaps the comm on again, slicing through Grawg’s bumbling apologies with a sharp “Dismissed,” and sets to peeling Peter’s face off his coat. It’s a hard task. Or, more accurately, a sticky one –
“Ugh! You’re worse than one of them slime-worms on Jthuo – does your species make snot as a bioweapon or something?”
Peter, scowling, blows a retaliatory bubble in Yondu’s face. “You’re the one who lost me!”
“And found you again,” Yondu’s quick to remind him. Because that’s what’s important, right? Behind him, he hears Kraglin groaning and levering himself up the wall – good, he hasn’t accidentally smothered him in his sleep. Lad’s a little bruised from landing at the bottom of the heap, and moderately concave, but he’ll bounce back into shape in no time. Peter, meanwhile, is studying his fraying cuffs –
“I’m glad you did,” he blurts. “Come back for me. I’m glad.”
It’s the closest he’ll come to saying thank you. Yondu, of course, capitalizes on it.
“Yeah, you oughta be! Could’ve left you there, I could. But I didn’t. So you be grateful, yeah?” The corner of his mouth twitches up. “The things I do for you… Heck, when you first came on board, these boys wanted to eat ya!”
Peter rolls his eyes. “I know, Yondu.”
“Ain’t never tasted Terran before.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you stopped them.”
“But I stopped them – hey!” Peter snickers, scratching crusty snot off his chin. Brat. “I shoulda left you lost,” Yondu complains. But when Peter lets him ruffle his hair a second longer than usual before dodging away, even Yondu can tell that he didn’t mean it.