bakerstreet | WE FIXED IT ALL FOR YOU

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[meme] au

WE FIXED IT ALL FOR YOU

GOOD END MEME

Sometimes you want a fix-it AU. You want everyone to live, to be happy, to find love, so on and so forth. You want the bad guy to lose early, for victory and triumph. No one dies, some deus ex machina saves the world, everyone goes out for ice cream after the final battle, whatever. The moral of the story is, everyone gets a happy ending. Everyone. Slasher movie? Everyone survives the night and the axe murderer changes their ways because they got a puppy. War movie? Both sides decide it's not worth it and sign a peace treaty. So. Like. Have fun with your lives not sucking.

• Top level your character. Include any details you might think are relevant. Or don't. As always, we're not the cops.
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• Have fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Things go from bad to worse to "holy shit, holy shit, what the fuck is even happening" in record time.

It's ridiculous, really the way Peter's life goes, how quickly things go pear-shaped; he hates to admit that at this point, he's used to getting fucked over, to getting the short end of the stick. Peter should've trusted his instincts about Ego. Every fiber in him screamed that there was something wrong, there, but maybe that's just hindsight at work? Gramps liked to say hindsight was 20/20, but only now that Peter's older does he fully understand what that means.

The truth is, he wanted to believe everything Ego told him, because it meant he had a place to call his own. Peter had spent so much of his life adrift, trying to cut out a piece of home for himself, that when Ego offered him a place at his side, Peter had wanted it so badly. He had been prepared to do whatever it took to feel like he belonged.

And look how it turned out: his father was a deranged, narcissistic psychopath who killed his mother and destroyed his Walkman.

A giant shitbag who tried to kill Peter's family.

A monster douchenozzle who nearly killed Yondu.

And those handful of seconds had been harrowing, Yondu rocketing them up through the fading atmosphere of the crumbling planet. Peter clutching at the aero rig and screaming at the Centaurian, telling him to hang on, please, please, for whatever good that would do in the void of space.

And then Kraglin swooped in with the Quadrant like some guardian angel and snatched them both from the brink.

Floating in the void is no fucking joke, so when the tractor beam spits the two of them into the airlock, Kraglin and Rocket whisk Yondu away to get him healed up, turning all sorts of medtech on him to repair the damage, while Gamora and Drax tend to Peter. Peter only suffered superficial wounds, though he's bruised and battered, sore and exhausted, but he guesses that's a lot better than dead.

It's ages before Kraglin and Rocket finally give Yondu a clean bill of health, and ages more before Peter finally dredges up the courage to slip into the captain's quarters. He hesitates before he slides the door shut behind him, leaning back against it with his arms crossed over his chest.

He clears his throat, licking his lips.

"How you feelin', old man?"

Yondu had been prepared to die. He'd planned for it. Expected it. There wasn't time for him to do much about it--no time for a will or for anything more than a final speech--but he'd been ready, all the same. It was the one good thing he was going to do. His final act to redeem a lifetime of mistakes.

But more important than any of that, he was going to do it to save his son.

He was no stranger to the misery of dying in space. He knew what it was going to be like to suffocate and freeze in the vacuum. Hell, he'd come close to it more than a few times already. But as he put the suit on Peter and flew to his ultimate fate, his only regret was that Peter was going to watch someone else he cared about die in front of him. The boy didn't need that. He'd lost his mom that way. He'd just watched his father go seconds before. And now he'd lose him, too.

But it had to be done. He had to do it. And this death? This was the best death he could have asked for.

Which was why he was so confused when he woke up, after.

Everything hurt for awhile. Nothing made sense. And people were doing things around him and to him and he couldn't even think about stopping them because it was enough energy just to keep his eyes open. But the one thing he seemed to understand was that, against all reason, he was alive. Somehow, he was alive.

And that meant he was going to need to face all the shit he'd said to Peter on his final ride.

Shit.

It was almost a full week before he's finally cleared and from there it's another week before there's the familiar tread of boots behind him as his cabin door opens and shuts. His back is to it when Peter speaks and, while he was really over by his drawers to get polish for his arrow, he grabs a bottle of green liquor and two glasses, instead.

Something told him already that he was going to need this.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he grumbled, dropping the glasses on his desk and sitting heavily in his chair. He filled them both up and nudged one in Peter's general direction before going for his own.

"Ya know, travel ain't free. We need to discuss how you 'n your friends are gonna compensate for the room 'n board they're takin' advantage of," he started, hoping to lead this into the familiar area of a fight. "Saw yer pretty little Milano. Yer not gonna fly that piece of crap anywhere but a junk heap. Looks like yer stuck with me for a spell."

Peter watched silently as Yondu moved around the room, studying his movements. He looked alright, Peter thought, a little pleased by that.

He could do without some of the bullshit falling from Yondu's lips, though, and Peter rolled his eyes at it – muscle memory, more than anything, that old instinct rising up from his days spent at Yondu's side. Getting the shit beat out of him during sparring sessions that got way too rough. Being ordered to slip into vents, through tiny cracks – and Peter's never been quite the same around small spaces, ever since an untimely growth spurt a couple weeks before a job left him stuck in a crawlspace.

God, he resented Yondu for so much of his life, for how terribly Yondu had fucked over his life. A few pretty words shouldn't change any of that.

But somehow, it had. Just the tiniest shift in Peter's worldview, though even Peter was having difficulty admitting that.

Peter trudged forward, hands still crossed over his chest and expression grim.

"We can fix the Milano," and maybe those words were more sentimentality than sense. The Milano had been one of Peter's greatest possessions ever since it was given to him; he wasn't about to abandon it now.

"And anyway, I'm pretty sure us saving the galaxy is enough to cover your fees, asshole."

He laughed something hard and unkind and ultimately forced before interrupting it with a sip of the liquid in the glass. His face contorted with the burn of it and for a second he was acutely reminded of the way his body had burned, warming up after being frozen nearly to the core. He still wasn't sure how he had survived that. But, honestly, he wasn't about to look the gift-horse in the mouth.

If he set the glass down, though. Well. He probably had his own reasons for that. Definitely wasn't because the feeling unsettled him. Yondu Udonta was not unsettled. Ever.

"I don't recall ever gettin' a lick 'a units from either one of your attempts at bein' a hero. Seems to me this whole 'galaxy' yer so keen to save pays like a Gruntlax casino boss." He leaned back in his chair, appraising Peter with his red eyes just slightly narrowed.

It was familiar to fight with Peter. Safe, even. But after everything they'd just been through... After everything Peter had just been through, he knew it was also the coward's way out. And he had, somehow, been given a second chance at life, here. So maybe, he figured, he should make some sort of good use out of it.

Or at least be a little less of an ass. At least where Peter was concerned.

"Tell ya what," he started, just a bit softer and his eyes not quite making contact, anymore. "We see what it takes to fix yer puddle-jumper and we'll square up sometime around then. Maybe...we do a job together. Something big. Should about cover it, yeah?"

Peter snorted out a derisive laugh of his own (and a distant part of him thought, Like father, like son, before he stomped the thought into dust). Typical, he thought, for Peter to have survived all this shit, only for Yondu to try and ruin it for him.

And wasn't that typical – Yondu just tearing down half of his accomplishments. Telling him how he could have done them better, faster, telling him how Yondu would have taken care of the same problem in half the time. It was never good enough, and Peter had hated it.

His lips parted, ready to argue, but that strange shift in Yondu's demeanor caught his attention, made Peter frown at him.

This. This was different.

This was going off-script, and Peter faltered.

There was a reason he had come in here in the first place, Peter remembered, but he's none too surprised how quickly Yondu had derailed him and taken the reins of the conversation into his own hands. Peter sighed, frustrated and sharp, before he closed the distance between them with a few dragging steps, plucking up the spare glass. He stared down at it for a few seconds, slowly swirling the contents, before taking a quick sip of it.

"What kind of job do you got in mind? 'Cause I've kind of got a reputation, now."

"Well," he started, ignoring his glass completely as a smile showcased his crooked, jagged teeth. "Nothin' that would be beneath our great guardian 'a the galaxy," he taunted. But unlike other times, he did so with a noted lack of derision. Indeed, something almost like fondness colored his words as he grinned at Peter. But almost as though sensing how deeply a-typical such a thing was, he shook the smile off and settled for something a bit less....less....

Well, he would say 'paternal', but then he'd have to throw himself out the airlock again, for real. So that was straight out.

"I'll look for somethin'. I mean, Twig made me a member of this little ragtag bunch you've been haulin' around with you. So I guess I got a reputation too, huh? Although he did say it with a bit of colorful language, so I'm not sure what reputation this is, exactly." He snorted through his nose, remembering that moment in isolation. Right before everything had gone to serious pot.

"I tell ya now. That movin' stick is gonna give ya a world a' trouble once it outgrows this whole 'wide-eyed amazement' phase." His next laugh was more genuine, head shaking back and forth slowly as he thoughtlessly reached for his glass and took a small sip. The burn made him wince again and the glass was set a further distance away to make sure the error wasn't repeated again.

"Do you remember when ya got pinched on Sparlth? Damn near took the whole crew to get ya out of that dungeon."

Peter studied Yondu carefully, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together. Something was definitely off. Something was— not wrong, necessarily, but certainly different. Like standing outside when the wind shifted directions, or sitting in a noisy room when the conversation suddenly dropped away to a quiet hush.

He could see it on Yondu's face, could hear it in his voice, and Peter knew it was because of that moment they shared, miles above the imploding surface of Ego's planet. Two weeks had passed since then, and they were both too cowardly to broach it.

That wince caught Peter's attention; the first reaction Peter had easily brushed away as Yondu being surprised by the burn of the alcohol, but this second time – that was harder to ignore. And when he deposited it out of easy reach, Peter frowned again, breathing in to ask what was wrong.

But the reminder of Sparlth made Peter cringe.

"I've been trying to forget that mess for years. That place smelled like shit and piss, and there was a guy in the cell who kept staring at me like he was wondering how much blood I had in my body."

He cast around for a second, locating another chair and pulling it up to Yondu's desk. He sank heavily into it – two weeks from all the shit with Ego, and Peter was still exhausted. It stood to reason he would be, though, considering Ego had literally tried to drain the life out Peter, and had done so unimpeded for a good long while. His hand unconsciously pressed against his breastbone, like he expected to feel a gaping hole there.

"Then you stormed in, whistling like a pissed-off mama bluejay." Despite himself, the corner of Peter's mouth twitched up in a faint smile. "Skewered every guard like they were shish kebabs."

"You weren't even old enough to trip door sensors and that damned planet. They were trumpin' up bullshit left an' right to try an' get one 'a my men in their hold. And then you go off and get caught stealin' their crown jewel and. Well..." He wanted to laugh at the memory, especially since Peter was smiling himself. But all he ended up managing was another crooked smirk as he remembered the red-hot rage that hat gone through him when he'd seen where Peter had been kept for nearly two days. When he knew, in just a few hours, Peter was going to be dragged up to the throne room and his hands removed, per the customs of the planet.

"No one messes with my men," he said, deadly serious. And as he said it, he could almost feel Ego's ghost in the room with them, hanging like a specter, alongside all the things they should be saying and were, for some reason, unable to.

He inhaled lightly, looking at Peter's hand on his chest and knowing acutely why it was there. The rage came back, but there was no target for him to whistle at, this time. The perpetrator was dead and gone. But the need to protect Peter? To guard him away from all that had happened? That remained.

Which was no surprise, if he were being honest with himself. It had remained with him since the first week the brat had been on his ship.

But when was he every honest with himself? Really?

He exhaled, cleared his throat with a cough, and then gestured abstractly to the vicinity of Peter's chest.

"You get that looked at? The whole...whatever the Hell that asshole did ta you?" His lips pursed together a moment, unhappy and tense. "You're alright, aren't ya?"

Peter didn't remember Sparlth nearly as well as Yondu seemed to, which was probably for the best. What little he remembered was being terrified out of his mind, not just for getting caught red-handed, and not just for the punishment that awaited him at the hands of the planet's ruler, but because he had messed up the mission. Peter had never fucked up on a job so terribly before, and every mistake before then had been met with a great deal of yelling, a few cuffs to the ear, and so many fucking chores that it made his head spin.

But actually getting caught? Actually getting jailed? Was a whole new level of failure, and Peter had been scared out of his mind for what would happen when Yondu got his hands on him.

It didn't end up being so terrible, in the end. He had dutifully scurried after Yondu once his cell door was popped open, had stepped over the bodies Yondu had left without looking too hard at them. Peter had been exhausted, and to his great surprise, Yondu let him sleep it off for a long while.

But maybe not so surprising, considering the way Yondu looked at him now, the way he asked after Peter. Peter's gaze flicked down to the hand he had pressed to his sternum before letting it drop to his lap. He sat up a little, taking a heavy pull from his glass.

"I'm perfectly healthy, considering a demented god plugged into me like I was a fucking outlet to power his vanity project."

He tried to say it with humor, but it fell flat, even in his own ears, and he cleared his throat, trying to shift the subject.

With a crooked, teasing smirk, he asked, "Why? You worried about me, you big softie?"

He snorted in a reply, the easy answer of 'Fuck you, of course not,' ready on his lips. But there were facts here that couldn't be denied. Words spoken that couldn't be taken back, now that they'd turned out to not be final, parting goodbyes. And neither of them had addressed it, yet. But the door leading back to Yondu pretending he didn't give a shit about Peter was slammed shut and locked, at this point. And him trying to open it back up was just going to look ridiculous.

So, he shrugged.

It wasn't a confirmation and it wasn't a denial. Just. A shrug. "I need ta make sure yer still able to run that next haul with me. Won't do for you up and keelin' over after I went through the trouble of savin' yer fool ass."

He reached for his glass intentionally, not drinking it but swirling the liquid around both to give him something to do and something to look at that wasn't the thirty-odd year old man sitting across from him that he'd raised himself. His son. Although he was pretty sure he'd swallow his own tongue before he say it.

"Ego..." he said instead, still looking at the cup. "He was a right bastard. Didn't do right by yer ma. Didn't do right by you. Don't care if he's a god or a Fluxxot mud work. Fucking ass you share nothin' with but DNA." He set the glass down, tilting it back and forth, letting the green liquid stick to the sides and run back down. "Parents are worthless, most often. Take my own, for start. At least yer ma seemed...nice."

He sighed and looked at Peter, finally, not appearing to be overly happy about it.

"I shoulda been straight with you. And that's on me. I shoulda told ya what Ego wanted. Woulda saved us all a lotta trouble. So...."

He shrugged again, not going to push this farther outside of what was normal by actually apologizing. Instead, he grabbed the bottle and topped Peter's glass off before settling back in his chair.

"Least ya know, now. Whatever that's worth."

Peter stared at Yondu.

Just— stared.

Because Peter had expected more of that barbed back and forth, more of the same, because he was giving Yondu an out, if he was honest. Giving the guy the opportunity to go back to the way things were, to that weird love-hate (but mostly hate) relationship they had going, where Yondu resented Peter for taking up space and eating their food, while Peter resented Yondu for...

... Well. For everything.

It hadn't been a conventional upbringing, and especially not a good one, but it was what it was. There was no going back to change any of it.

But now, moving forward— Peter wasn't sure if he was ready to let himself take Yondu's words at face value, wasn't sure if he was ready to let someone else in, just so they could fuck him over. Ego had been so convincing, had said every single word in every single way Peter had ever hoped for. Falling for that maniac's tricks had been so simple.

And Peter hated himself for it.

But that was a problem for another time, because Yondu kept surprising him at every turn. Peter frowned at him, letting him refill his glass. Then, quietly, he asked, "Why the hell didn't you tell me? I mean, obviously not when I was a kid, but when I was older."

Finally, Yondu's face fell, showing exactly how exhausted he probably felt through this whole conversation. "Hell, Peter," he breathed, rubbing a hand from the base of his fin down to his chin and then back up again where it just cradled his forehead.

"Hell..."

He stood up and walked back over to his drawers. Though, when he got over there, he didn't seem to be looking for anything specific. Just...standing. Using the distance and the lack of eye contact to give him some sense of security and control over this conversation.

"Your ma died talkin' 'bout what an angel your daddy was. You told us maybe a hundred times how he was gonna come for us and kick our asses. Me? I was just the blue fucker that kidnapped ya. I go flappin' my mouth about what a bag of dicks your old man is...well..."

He finally turned, unhappiness coming off him in waves. A sense of failure clinging on the words as they came out.

"I figured you'd travel half 'cross the entire galaxy just ta find him and prove my ass wrong." His shoulders tense up, as though he were braced somewhere on this uneven ground he was now treading, ready to fall. "You were...better thinkin' he was gone. Safer. So I thought. But then you go off gettin' grabby-hands with an Infinity Stone and. Well. I had my doubts before, whether you were...like him. But that 'bout settled it."

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring his red eyes out into the void of space that had nearly been his tomb.

"I did what I thought was right. Got ya to this age without him comin' around to mess ya up. I ain't apologizin' for it."

Peter breathed in, ready to argue, to tell him how seriously wrong Yondu was about him, how he’d react, but as he grasps for words, he realized that Yondu might have a point.

For a time, he listened to everything Yondu said, did everything he was told – for the most part, anyway; there was a point in his teenaged years where he railed against the short leash Yondu tried to keep him on, but that’s typical of any kid growing up, Peter imagined. If Yondu had told him he had a father, a man who would use him and discard his children as he saw fit, depending on whether or not they were useful to him, Peter doubted he would have believed him. Not after all the things his mother had told him – about what a kind man his father was, what a wonderful man, filled with joy and life. Driven and passionate, who left stardust in his wake.

And now Peter understood why.

Peter grimaced at the thought, scrubbing at both of his eyes with the heels of his palms; weeks later, and he still feels like he sees stars.

For a long while, Peter stayed silent, processing the information, trying to reconcile this concern from Yondu, of all people, trying to wrap his head around the regret rolling from Yondu like inky smoke. It’s all so terribly alien. Peter had spent twenty-six years of his life thinking Yondu hadn’t given a single shit about him, that the captain only cared about Peter as long as he was useful to him. Peter was only as ever good as his haul – whatever goods he was bringing in, however many units he was grabbing, however many jobs he completed.

And now, this.

He had no idea what to do with it.

After everything with Ego, after all the lies the Celestial had said with a smile, Peter wasn’t sure he could just allow himself to believe anything. Not yet, anyway. Not so soon after all of it. His hand pressed against his sternum again, fingers rubbing small circles there.

“After all these years, you expect me to believe this?” His voice wasn’t accusing, though; instead, he cast the words with the same bone-deep exhaustion Yondu seemed to be feeling.

“You spent all those years of my life threatening to let the other Ravagers eat me if I fucked up, or to just leave me behind if I messed up a job, and now this? You want me to believe you were doing all that shit for my well-being? Like I’m supposed to be grateful for you being the lesser of two seriously fucked up evils?”

Peter let out a low, mirthless laugh, scrubbing at his eye again with his free hand.

“Jesus Christ, Yondu. You’ve gotta know you sound like you’re full of shit.”

Yondu hadn't expected a hug from what he'd said. Hell, he'd probably punch Peter before he allowed the man that close for something as sentimental as that. But he hadn't quite expected Peter to laugh at him. Even less he'd expected to be called a liar. But he was almost grateful for that assessment to be handed over. The blue around his cheeks heated up for a moment, darkening with something that had to be rage; Yondu never felt embarrassment, after all. And then he glared over at Peter and took a few menacing steps forward.

This he could work with. This went back to the familiar. The normal. Peter yelling at him and blaming him for shit. Yondu shouting back and calling him an ingrate and an idiot. It was the same dance they'd done for over twenty years.

Well, sort of.

"I sound like I'm full 'a shit? Are ya fucking serious, Quill?"

He stepped forward, one finger jabbed almost into Peter's face, the dark spots still visible on his cheeks. "When did I ask you to be grateful? When did I ask you for a damned thing, other than for you to earn yer keep?

"I hadta run this ship. I was the damned captain and now I gotta kid on board who I either turn over to be sucked dry or keep with my crew. Do ya know how many people wanted to sell you off? How many people said I was gonna go soft with you?" It was the worst offense that could be levied. Could have lead to a mutiny (as it just recently had done). Could have lead to Peter being killed all over again to 'save' Yondu from the influence.

"I did what I hadta. And I ain't apologizin' for bein' hard on ya. From where I stand, you turned out just fine."

He turned, stalking back to his desk, still flushed with whatever it was he was feeling. "I don't give a shit what you believe or don't believe," he grumbled nearly under his breath. "Next time yer floatin' in space, call someone else to die to save ya, ya hear?"

And that...wasn't how he wanted to broach the elephant in the room. It was obvious that was the case from how his whole body tensed up at once, the minute he realized he had said it. His eyes shut, as though sealing out the reality of that statement. But he knew, as he flopped back into his seat, that it would wait for him the minute he opened his eyes.

He'd died for Peter. Or at least been willing to. The fact that he was alive now was a miracle he'd neither expected nor quite understood. But it was still what had happened. And both of them--the only two who had been in that moment when Yondu had tried his best to say what he wanted to as he made his goodbyes--knew that.

He deflated a bit, reaching for his glass and throwing it down, burning sensation be damned.

"I don't give a damn what you believe," he said again, softer and more tired, this time. Clearly lying, but buried beneath the bluster. "I know what I did and why I did it. 'S enough for me."

This wasn't going the way Peter had planned it to.

If he were honest, he would admit that when he had come in here, he had fully planned on sitting down with Yondu at long last, face to face, and hash out just what the hell the whole thing had meant. That mad dash away from the surface of Ego's planet, that quick exchange, hardly a handful of seconds before Peter was screaming at Yondu, before the chorus in his head chanted, It's not fair. It's not fucking fair.

How many fucking times, how many fucking ways, could life fuck him over?

And then back on the ship, with the both of them safe and out of the woods, the chant in his head turned into Yondu's voice on a loop: "I'm damn lucky you're my boy."

And how was Peter supposed to reconcile all those fucked up years with words like that?

As Yondu shouted at him, raged at him, the words falling from his lips past jagged teeth felt familiar. The rhythm felt familiar, too, but what tripped Peter up, what kept him from falling entirely into old habits, were the dark splotches on Yondu's face, that odd something that danced in his red eyes. Some emotion Peter didn't recognize, or at least didn't recognize in Yondu, and it stunned him into wide-eyed silence.

And then that blow, the jab about nearly dying on Peter's behalf, made him deflate, made that anger drain away from him like a popped balloon.

The words hung between them, heavy and awkward, and after a long while, as Peter grasped for words, as he stared at Yondu, hoping he'd find the answers written on the Centaurian's face, he let out a sharp breath between his teeth.

"You scared the shit out of me, you fucking asshole," and despite the word choice, Peter cast them out on a low, rough voice, something broaching earnest.

"I didn't ask you to save me. And if I had known what you had planned, I would've told you to keep your stupid, rickety ass back on the ship with Kraglin."

Because Peter knew what it meant, fighting to keep Ego at bay, knew that holding the Celestial back while the others got to safety meant that Peter would be going down with the planet, and that was... that had been fine. A galaxy saved from a planet-sized narcissist, with Peter's life as the cost? Seemed like a fair trade. And then Yondu had swooped in, plucked him from the crumbling caverns, and Peter had been surprised but relieved – at least, up until he realized what the price of living meant as Yondu's aero rig spluttered out.

"You do not get to call me 'your boy' and try to fucking die on me to get out of it, you son of a bitch." Still low, still quiet. "You don't get to drop that in my lap and leave, so you don't have to deal with the consequences."

And apparently it was Peter's turn to rail right back at Yondu, jerking forward to jab an accusatory finger right back at the other man.

"So no, you fucking bastard. I'm not grateful. I'm not glad you saved me back there. Not if it meant I had to watch you die."

And there it was. Fucking Hell, they were talking about it. Yondu watched Peter closely. Unblinking as he said his piece. Only flinching for a moment when his own words were repeated back to him. His boy. Yeah. Yeah he'd said that. And, well. When Peter lays it out the way he is, it's almost damned selfish that he'd drop all of that on him, knowing fully well that he'd never have to actually deal with the aftermath of it.

Except now he did. He'd lived and everything he'd said was now able to be clarified. Peter was able to argue with him. Call him a liar. Or, worse, do what he was doing now and call him out on his bullshit. When this had all been dying words, it had been easy. But now? Now he couldn't believe he'd said this at one point with such ease.

Dying had a way of prioritizing things, he supposed. And when you had seconds left, there just wasn't any time to waste for doubts.

If only he could access that particular brand of brute honesty now.

"That..." He started quietly, not doing Peter the disservice of ducking his gaze. "That's one thing I am sorry 'bout."

He sighed, heavy and miserable, the apology already costing him something when he hadn't even gotten it out yet.

"I...didn't want ya to see me end like that. We ain't always friendly. But I...figured you'd had enough 'a watchin' people close to you kick it. But it was either that, or..." He flapped a hand, trying to encompass the utter unacceptability of Peter dying through pathetic charade. "An' there was no way I was gonna let that happen."

His hand scrubbed over his face. He wanted the conversation over, but it would never really be over till they hashed his out. So he set his elbows onto the table and. Well. Ripped the band-aid off.

"I never tried to be yer daddy. Parents are...worthless. Far as I can see, any rate. But I was there. I saw ya grow from a scrawny, whiny brat to a bigger, even whinier brat. And... I meant what I said. I'm proud. Of what ya done. What yer gonna do. So. Yeah. I'm sorry to add 'nother dead body to yer collection. But I'm never fuckin' apologizin' for saving yer life.

"And I'm tellin' ya right now. You can shove me on my ship. Chain me down. Hold me at gunpoint. But you ain'tever gonna stop me from doing it again. Ya hear me? You... you're...."

The word choked in his throat. Stuck there where he couldn't say it. Even though, damn it. He'd said it already. Peter had said it back to him. Fuck, what sort of coward was he? A fucking word and he couldn't strangle it out.

He swallowed hard, steeling himself and mentally slapping himself for being a coward. Was he going to wait to the next time he died to say it? Fucking Hell, he'd been given another chance.

Fuck him if he wasted it.

"You're...my boy, Peter. And I'm gonna do what I gotta. Whether you like it or not."

The words of praise were deeply unfamiliar, especially from Yondu. Peter had spent so much of his childhood trying to earn those words, working hard, training hard, looking for some tiny bit of acknowledgement that Yondu had seen his progress. He rarely ever got them, though, was told over and over how to do better for next time, when all Peter ever wanted to hear was something as simple as, “Well done.”

So by comparison, these words, hesitant as they were, reluctant as they are, were effusive. Glowing. More praise in one sitting than Peter had ever heard from Yondu in his entire life, and—

He had heard similar things from Ego, too. Ego had woven an almost hypnotic spell, had said every single thing Peter had ever wanted to hear, told him how important he was, how special Peter was, how well he had adapted to the news of his godhood. Ego had done and said everything right, and Peter had eaten it up.

The shit with Ego made him gun shy, made him want to hold back from diving in headlong when Yondu first started broaching the topic of Peter’s childhood, of how the Ravager captain was just trying to protect him. Now, though, that control was crumbling, and it showed in the way Peter’s hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way he grit his teeth.

“I don’t need you protect me. I’m not some snot-nosed kid anymore, Yondu.”

Still quiet, and while Yondu might have been able to maintain eye contact, Peter’s gaze dropped to the deck.

“I don’t need you to die for me, you old bastard, and like hell do I want you to.”

His jaw clenched, and Peter couldn’t help but replay the memory in his mind. The noise of wind rushing past, of explosions beneath his feet. Yondu’s iron grip on the material of Peter’s jacket, hauling him up and up and up into the inky blackness of space. The phantom pressure of Yondu’s hands on his cheeks as Peter screamed, as he tried desperately to yank the trigger for the spacesuit from his chest to save Yondu as Yondu had saved him. That creeping realization that it wouldn’t come off, it wouldn’t fucking come off, that Yondu was dying and there was nothing Peter could do—

(Mom, reaching for him with what little strength she had left. The heart monitor screeching in his ears. Mom’s hand falling to the bedspread, her eyes slipping shut—)

Peter finally managed to drag his gaze back up to Yondu’s face, eyes stinging and blazing.

“Don’t fucking do that to me again. Ever.”

"Peter," he started, already looking vaguely ill with that single word. Because he was asking for the impossible, wasn't he? Yondu had already said as much; he was going to do what he needed to, where Peter was concerned. Peter was his boy. His only boy. Yondu wasn't going to let anyone take him out. And if the time came, once more, when he was the only thing standing between Peter and a grave, he would step right in and take the hit. He wouldn't even think twice about it. And to promise otherwise was a baldfaced lie.

But lies were a hallmark of their relationship, weren't they? So what was one more? Especially when he was positive that both he and Peter knew what the truth really was.

"Alright," he agreed, nodding a bit as he crossed over to the other side of the desk, standing in front of the boy he'd raised all these years and who looked like he was falling apart right in front of him. "Alright, fine. But don't go lookin' for trouble neither. I don't wanna hear about you in some mess that I coulda gotten you out of."

He paused, then, looking at the fists Peter had in his lap. At the tension in Peter's shoulders and the lost, somewhat haunted look that was crossing over his face, now and then.

Yondu knew what he needed to do. But he was pretty sure one of them was going to die if he attempted it; Peter from a heart attack and Yondu from softening up so much, that he'd actually just melted away.

So a hug was out.

Instead, he reached out and clasped Peter hard on his shoulder, shaking him just a little in order to get his attention. Then, "That's the deal, yeah? Ya don't want me dying for ya, then ya keep yourself safe. Otherwise. Well. I do what I gotta to make sure ya get out. Fair?"

The touch, the little shake, seemed to rouse him from whatever dark thoughts were circling in his head, and Peter blinked away the wetness in his eyes. (Jesus, how fucking embarrassing, he thought. He might have chucked himself out of the airlock then and there if he had broken down in tears in front of Yondu.)

He met Yondu's attempt at a trade with a quiet scoff, hearing the lie for what it was. Yondu had trained him in the fine art of thieving, the art of misdirection, the art of lying through a smile. It wasn't even a good lie, and it was an even worse offer, considering what Peter currently did for a living. He couldn't exactly call himself a Guardian of the Galaxy if he didn't go out and literally guard the goddamn galaxy, and he couldn't do that if he was staying out of trouble.

Which left them at an impasse.

He looked up at Yondu, brow furrowed and jaw tightened into a grim line.

"You're never gonna listen to me, are you?" There should have been annoyance in his tone, but the only thing that made it into his voice was exhaustion. "You never listen to me, you jerk-nut. It ever occur to you that I might actually know what I'm doing out here? That you trained me to do what needs to be done?"

It would have been easy to accuse Yondu of being full of shit again, to tell him where he could shove this deal of his if he wasn't going to take Peter seriously, but Peter found he couldn't dredge up the words, that they eluded his grasp even as he reached for them.

Instead, he hesitated before reaching up, wrapping his hand around Yondu's wrist, keeping the other man in place. He gripped Yondu's wrist tightly, as if to assure himself that the other man was still there, still whole, and Peter heaved out a sigh.

"You're a stupid old fart, you know that?" Somehow, a thread of affection curled through the words, despite the insult.

The idea that Peter knew what he was doing out there was more worrisome than the alternative. It meant that Peter knew when things were going to hit the fan and knew exactly what was needed to stop that from happening. It meant that he knew how to balance his own worth against the aims of the mission. And when Peter's mission was literally saving the galaxy, Yondu knew how that particular scale was going to tip, whenever it did.

They were stuck, the two of them. Peter selfless enough to throw his neck into countless nooses and Yondu selfish enough to step up and take the hanging for him. What a pair they were. What a fucked up, messed up pair.

But maybe that's how every family was. And they both just hadn't had enough experience with it to know it for what it was.

Peter's grip was almost bruising, but Yondu allowed it. It let him have the rare chance to indulge in his own more sentimental needs. After all, he'd been planning to die, hoping that someone would come and get Quill before he joined him. But he had worried that something would happen. Worried that despite his efforts, he would have died in vain, unable to protect his boy from the next round of shit. And even if it didn't happen right then, he'd still been worried that would be the case in maybe a year. Or, knowing Peter, an hour.

So he let Peter hold onto him. Smirked at the insult and shook his head.

"I raised ya better than to throw half-assed insults like that, ya half-brained brat." The affection in the insult was just as present as Peter's had been. And despite himself, a smile touched Yondu's face.

Peter was alive. He was alive. And, maybe for the first time, they had some sort of understanding between them. Something that, for once, had the potential of being honest.

He hesitated a moment, caught on the edge of something he'd never even considered before. Something that terrified him almost as much as being shot out of the sky. But then he remembered all the things he shouted at Rocket. Remembered the bitter regrets he'd swallowed down as the vacuum of space stole his ability to speak or breathe.

Remembered all the times he'd looked over at Peter, wanting to say something more than he was able to and having the words never materialize until the moment was over.

So. Yeah. Maybe fuck that. Maybe, just this once, fuck that.

"C'mere, boy," he grumbled, yanking Peter up and into his arms for what was probably the first hug either of them had had in decades. But for how unpracticed it was, Yondu didn't feel awkward. Didn't really feel anything other than the sheer relief it was to know Peter was here, alive, and more or less alright.

"Yer father was a grade-a jackass," he announced confidently. "Ain't worth the piss he put on the ground. But he did one thing right in his miserable life. And I gotta be thankful for that."

His arms tightened around Peter.

"Tell a goddamn soul about this 'n I'll put an arrow through yer neck 'fore you can finish the first word."

When Yondu hauled him to his feet, Peter wasn’t entirely sure where it was going. He might have expected Yondu to shove him out, to give him some companionable slap on the back or something.

He didn’t expect, this, for Yondu’s arms to wrap around him like a vise, and Peter tensed with it initially, went rigid with the unfamiliarity of it. It took a few seconds, but at last, Peter relaxed into it and returned the hug with an ease he hadn’t dredged up since he was a child on Earth. It helped to unknot some of that coil of unease in him, helped to reassure him that things were fine. Hardly perfect – because when were they ever? – but something approaching normal, at least for them. Maybe something even better than normal.

Yondu’s opinion on Ego dragged a half-hearted snort of laughter from Peter. It was impossible to find anyone on this ship who thought otherwise, as far as Ego was concerned, and once Peter shared the fact that Ego was the one to kill his mother— well. Opinions dropped to an all-time low. So Yondu’s words hardly surprised him – at least, not initially. The words after that made Peter tense all over again, if only because they struck a bitter chord in him.

(Ego’s voice, overflowing with emotion. “I’ve made many mistakes, Peter, but you’re not one of them.”)

The threat helped to wash away the acrid taste in his mouth, and Peter let himself breathe out another laugh, ducking his head a little. His hands tightened their grip on Yondu’s clothing.

“You really are just a giant softie,” and he managed a bit of accusation in his tone, just the tiniest bit of teasing, even if his voice was slightly thick with that sliver of gratitude that Yondu so often demanded, hesitantly given. “Is the senility makin’ you sentimental, old man?”

Yondu snorted but didn't let go of Peter. "Shut up, ya pissant," he grumbled, clearly smiling through it. One of his hands pressed up between Peter's shoulder blades as though to encourage him close. "Sentiment's a waste 'a time. This ain't sentiment. It's..."

Well. What was it, then? He'd talked himself into this corner and, joking or not, he needed to have some way to explain this off. The truth was unspoken, there. Both of them holding on, unwilling to be the first to pull away. But that sort of emotional openness was likely to give them both hives if they talked about it. So he needed something else. Something benign.

"It's...a 'sorry your father's a dick' consolation prize."

There. That worked well enough. Yondu was still smiling as he finally loosened his hold, pulling back just enough to aggressively muss Peter's hair and then smack him hard on the cheek. "Yeah. That's what this is. Start goin' around telling folks I'm soft, Imma soften up this hard skull 'a yers."

Finally, he pulled back but didn't move. The smile faded, an air of concern opening up now that, somehow, the atmosphere of the room seemed to allow more intimate discussion. "How are ya doin'? Really doin'? I know ya took down your old man, but..." He can tell when Peter is off. He doesn't say it, but he knows that Peter is aware of that particular talent. It was part of the reason the poor kid had such a hard time lying to him, back when he first tried to sneak off and get into trouble on his own.

"But I know there's a lot more to it, when it comes to family. Hell, mine sold me inta slavery an' I still wonder about 'em. Sometime." His lips pursed together, eyes looking down at Peter's chest where he had just rubbed, moments before.

"You've been through a lot, past weeks. How're you? Dealin' with it, I mean? An', here." He dragged the bottle back over, filling Peter's glass to the top. "This always helps."

Peter snorted out another laugh, clearly not buying the bullshit Yondu was trying to feed him, but he didn't bother to give voice to the words. Instead, he let himself smile, let that strange hollowness in his chest – something that had been yawning in him ever since Ego had gotten into his head – fill up a little.

When they finally pulled apart, Peter felt a little more at ease than he had in weeks. Not a lot, but enough that maybe he wouldn't keep playing those moments in the void over and over in his head. Yondu made a serious mess of his hair, though, and Peter squawked out an outraged protest; as he reached up to repair the damage, he left himself open for that smack.

"Hey! You fucking dick."

He shouldn't have forgotten what an asshole Yondu could be.

He was still straightening out his hair – which mainly meant tousling it back into its usual messy style – when Yondu asked after him, asked how he was doing. Peter froze for a split-second. He hadn't been expecting the question, obviously, hadn't been expecting Yondu to care to ask, even with these new revelations hanging between them. For a second, Peter considered lying, thought over whether or not he could get away with saying he was fine, telling Yondu that he was more than used to shit hitting the fan, over and over and over, even during the course of the same job. This was nothing new. Personal, yes, but nothing Peter couldn't handle.

But he knew Yondu would see straight through it, and the way Yondu looked down at Peter's chest made him press a hand to his sternum, almost by reflex. He still felt it, sometimes, that phantom pain of Ego piercing through his chest, of hanging from a skewer while Ego sucked away his very life; the tendrils of light slamming into him in the caverns, through his chest, his neck, his temple, like burning lances. It had hurt – there was no lying about that – and Peter was still dealing with the effects of it, getting tired faster, sleeping for longer (when he could manage to sleep, anyway). More than all of that, though, was the mental toll the shitfest had taken on Peter. The emotional toll. The way Ego had stepped straight into his head, had rearranged his thoughts, had made Peter want everything Ego wanted. The way Ego had filled Peter's head with stars and stardust, with the beauty of Ego's vision, with the peace of eternity. Peter had wanted it so badly, would have done anything Ego asked him to make him happy, to bask in Ego's praise and his pride—

If Ego hadn't carelessly told Peter what he had done to Meredith Quill, Peter worried he would still be under that spell. Would have destroyed the galaxy with eyes full of stars, just so Ego would smile at him in that certain way, would clap him on the shoulder and tell Peter how very special he was.

Peter grimaced with the thought, and when Yondu topped off his glass, Peter immediately plucked it back up, taking a swig from it to cover the sour taste rising up his throat with the burn of the alcohol. He coughed, once he had chugged the mouthful, eyes watering with it; after that, though, Peter stayed silent, sinking heavily back into his seat as he tried to choose his words carefully.

"I'm... processing it still." Not a lie, but certainly not the truth, either. For as much as Peter thought about everything that happened, he spent a lot of time chasing those very same thoughts away. Ignoring them aggressively. Not the healthiest coping mechanism, he knew, but the easiest.

"It'll get better." Probably. That's his hope, anyway. "Just need to put some distance between me and whatever dust is left of that douchebag."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

WE FIXED IT ALL FOR YOU

hope this works?

My fragile heart....

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