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?"