Peter Quill (betterthanhoff) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2018-12-25 20:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | peter quill (star-lord), yondu udonta |
Who: Peter Quill and Yondu
Where: Yondu's place
When: Dec 25, evening sometime
What: It's been a looong time
Rating: Low/Medium (language)
Status: Completed
By the time Peter trudged up to Yondu's doorstep, he was disgusting. His prison-issued shoes were not up to the task of snow, and neither was his jacket. Between the sweat dripping down his back from the physical exertion, the slush pooling around the bottom of his pants and the shivering in his face...well, he wouldn't be surprised if Yondu took one look and directed Peter to the nearest Salvation Army. He'd spent half of the walk there thinking that would end up happening anyways. It wasn't like Yondu had given him his address. The phone number, well that had never changed. The old man couldn't be bothered to change it, and Peter was thankful for that. The address, on the other hand, well that had been carefully flirted for. When money started randomly appearing on Peter's commissary account, he'd first thought it was a mistake. After the third time, he realized it was on purpose and using all his persuasion powers, managed to convince one of the guards to get him the name and address. Seeing Yondu Ondata, Orange County was a surprise but not an unexpected one. Obviously, Yondu was the only one he'd notified upon his incarceration, and although the phone calls had wittled down to nothing, Yondu was still there for him like some scarred, ugly penny. Taking a deep breath, Peter slowly trudged up to the front door and paused. Sure, he could pick the lock easily enough, and part of him really did want to see the look of 'what the fuck' on his face, but no. Instead, he knocked. Hard and slow and repeatedly. He'd stop when Yondu opened up.
Yondu stretched on his couch, yawning widely and scratching an itch down below before finishing off his glass of whiskey. He was sprawled out in long sleeve winter pajamas with matching pants - Navy blue with small gray patterns on it. He wouldn't be caught dead in them in front of anyone but then a massive blizzard was happening so what did he care? He wasn't expecting a soul. And the new dog he'd adopted from the shelter one of the message board people had posted about surely didn't give a damn. Kraglin was sprawled out on his big dog bed, out like a light, lost in doggie dream land, his big paws occasionally twitching. Yondu smirked at the pit bull/lab mix. He'd have fun training him to help run down criminals when the weather got better. In the meantime, Yondu was content to kick back and relax - casting an occasional glance at a window to see how big and fluffy or thin and numerous the flakes were. His gaze returned to the television, on some random Hallmark Christmas movie - he'd been channel surfing and decided to see just how bad they were. After all, there was only so many times he could watch Die Hard and their sequels in a given sitting. The dude in the movie who had been trying and failing so hard to get the girl who didn't seem to know what she wanted in life, seemed poised to win her over when there was a loud, slow, knock on the door. For a moment Yondu thought it was part of the movie, until the second, third, and fourth knocks came, not matching the film. The fifth knock and Kraglin finally came back from the dead, jumping to his feet with a startled bark before looking in the direction of the front door. "The hell...?" Yondu growled to himself, rising grudgingly off of the couch. Who the hell could be at his door in this weather? Sure as hell wasn't the mail. He padded cautiously towards the door, whistling his arrow to follow. Kraglin stalked right beside him, tense and a deep growl in his throat. "What the hell do you want?!" He bellowed just before the door. He paused just in time to remember to switch on his image inducer - though for a moment he was tempted to just be in his original blue alien self - maybe the punk would run off. Especially if it was some dumb kids pulling a prank. "There's a fuckin' snowstorm on, you D'ast idiot..." He snarled, pulling the door open angrily. He stopped short, glaring at the shivering, disheveled man standing on his front porch. Yondu's brow furrowed. "What'n the..." Kraglin meanwhile was growling menacingly. Yondu waved the dog into silence with a single hand gesture. The arrow however, still hovered by his shoulder, a faint red glow around it. "What do you want?" He asked warily, a complete lack of recognition on his features. "This ain't no shelter."
Green eyes looked up from under the brim of a hoody. "Well no shit, Sherlock," drawled Peter, stomping his shoes on the doormat. Yeah. Doormat. What the fuck. Had Yondu found some sort of religion? Was that why he was being all domestic as fuck? His eyes roved around the room, taking in the movie on TV, the dog staring at him ... it was a little disconcerting, if Peter was honest, but all he had to worry about right now was not being thrown out into that snowstorm. "If it was a shelter, you'd be preaching God and giving me a sandwich by now, which for the record, I do not want." He paused. "God, that is. A sandwich would be good, maybe even a little hug for the wayward son, but I'm not picky. Did you get my message?" Without waiting for an invite, he kicked off his shoes (he had SOME respect for a man's house) and hugged himself, shivering a little. "Brr, it is cold out there. Is this what all them peeps were talking about, global warming or some shit?" Taking off his sopping jacket, he rubbed his arms a bit, unsettled by the fact that he had very little feeling in them. "I could cut glass with my nips right now."
Yondu felt like he had just been bitch slapped by the universe. As soon as he caught sight of that insolent look and heard that familiar sarcastic laden voice he knew instantly that it was Peter. Normally Yondu's hackles would have raised at the very sight of him showing up like this after everything; a stiff arm coupled with a few choice words would have greeted the young man. Instead, Yondu stood dumbstruck, fighting off a turmoil of emotions. He was still grappling with the last dream he had where he died in front of Peter. He'd put himself into a drunken stupor with Jessica in order to block it out for a little while, and it had worked. But since then had been another story. He'd just about gotten over the idea of dreaming about raising a kid he'd already known in this life at a distance, only to sacrifice himself for him. Peter showing up now only forced that all back into his head like a tidal wave, and Yondu was struggling to stay afloat. Torn between crying then pulling the boy (could he really call this flarking loser a man? And did he have to use the prodigal son metaphor?) into a bear hug and the alternative - kicking him out into the snow Sparta style - Yondu chose a third option: to choke back the tears before they were even noticeable and force a glower. It only became a real one once Peter stepped into his house uninvited and started dropping all his sopping wet prison clothes all over his floor. Dammit. Kid still had no respect. Sure, Yondu was a bachelor and not the neatest, but he hated snow being tracked in. The kid could have at least stomped his feet on the porch outside, whose partial roof kept most of the snow from accumulating in the areas close to the door. "You got nerve showin' up here." He finally growled, plucking the arrow from mid-air and pointing it at him instead of a finger. No, he had no idea Peter had left him a voicemail. His phone was off in another room charging.
"I think the one thing we can both agree on is I got a shitty track record with good ideas." And that was an understatement, he though, a familiar grin growing across his face.
"Come on, Yondu. You were checking my mail while I was in the clink. That kind of bond..." He gave a whistle. "It don't break that easy, you know?". Like usual, Peter was hiding everything behind jokes, sarcasm, and charm. Didn't matter that everyone could see through it -- Peter still did it.
A few moments more, and Peter sighed. "Okay, so I'm at rock bottom. All I got to my name is my iPod, my wallet, an expired condom and 5 bucks in change. Can I at least shower or something before you decide you're sick of looking at me?"
Yondu gave Peter the look he always gave him when the younger man started trying to find Yondu's soft spot. Years of putting up with Peter's nonsense had hardened Yondu to his charms. But then Peter went with the rock bottom stuff and Yondu's dream emotions made themselves known. He made a face somewhere between annoyed and resigned in reticent sympathy. He jerked his head in the direction of the master bathroom. "Don't use up all my hot water." There was a glint of kindness in his eyes then, as if to say 'welcome back, kid'. Who was he fooling? Deep down inside he was happy Peter was okay and hadn't been shanked before being able to get out of prison. He was happy Peter had turned to him - even if it was last resort. Picking up the sopping, filthy shoes and shirt he shook his head and muttered to himself. "Expired condom. Taught him better than that."
~*~*
There was something to be said about the cleansing properties of a shower, both physically and mentally. This was the first time in five years he was by himself, and damnit, he was going to enjoy it.
Cranking the hot water, he felt the liquid scald his skin, ignoring the prickles. As water cascaded down his face, he closed his eyes and centred himself.
You're free now. You are the only one in this shower. You're free.
This mantra repeated in his head while he cleaned up, washed his hair, and relaxed in the water. Freedom. He wouldn't be takin that for granted anymore. When his shower was done, he reached for a towel and dried off his hair and face before looking down at the floor with a frown. His clothes were gone. It took him a moment to realize that Yondu probably had come in and then them, but that left Peter with a slight problem: he had absolutely nothing else.
Well. Maybe not really a problem, actually.
Fully dried off, he casuaully sauntered back into the living room, following the sound of the television. Hands on his hips, he grinned, aware that he was completely buck-naked. "You keep your place so hot, Yondu, I barely even feel a draft."
Yondu was far from domesticated but the one thing he couldn't stand was the smell of prison in his house. Over the years Peter had crashed on his couch more times than he cared to remember, often in a condition similar to this. Well, nowhere this bad, he thought, frowning at the pile clothes he was now considering burning. He could just whistle the arrow aflame and get the job done. Except for of course the smoke alarms. Forget it, he'd figure something out later. In the meantime he'd have to give Peter some old clothes to wear. "An' he better not bitch about it neither." He muttered to himself as he tromped up the basement stairs. He had just sat back down on the couch when he heard the shower stop. "Got clothes for ya in the bottom drawer!" He hollered over the distance. Silence ensued for a few minutes of which Yondu thought Peter was getting dressed.
When he heard feet padding down the hallway shortly after, he started speaking before he tore his eyes away from the old movie he'd switched to (the Hallmark one had finished) in order to address Peter. "You in my house ten minutes and you're complaining about the damn temperature JESUSBOYPUTSOMEPANTSON!!!" Yondu scowled and looked up at Peter's face trying to ignore everything below it. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd seen Peter's...peter; between the dreams of being a space pirate on a ship full of other male space pirates plus raising a kid to be a space pirate and the various shenanigans he'd busted the kid on in this life - he'd had more than his share of such sights. As a guy it wasn't really a problem in those scenarios. But this was his home. And only he was allowed to walk around in his birthday suit if he damned well felt like it. Alone. Dammit what was he thinking bringing in this chucklehead? "First rule: always wear some damn pants." He pointed at him.
"Yeah, yeah," Peter responded with a wave. He sure loved getting Yondu riled up, and ignoring him was the best way.
Still. Peter eyed the dog warily. He was in no rush to get castrated so with a grin, he followed Yondu's point to the room where he grabbed a pair of ill-fitting sweats and a random t-shirt. Properly attired, he came back to the living room and sat down. Tapped his bare fet on the ground for a bit, followed by his hands slapping his thighs lightly.
Already antsy. Time to stir things up.
"Alright, so let's hear it. Yondu's patented 'Peter, you done fucked up again' talk. Make sure you add how you're only saving my as tonight but tomorrow, I'm back out there. And don't worry -- I won't steal your underwear. Or TV."
When Peter had re-emerged with clothing on - and of course Peter would be freeballing in his favorite pair of sweats that were specifically not in the bottom drawer like he had said earlier - Yondu made it a point to ignore him, growling low into his whiskey and glaring at the television instead. But out of the corner of his eye he could see the kid tapping and such, a nervous habit he knew all too well. He'd let the kid sweat a bit longer.
The Peter spoke up, anticipating his speech, which ironically, was not the one he was planning on giving him this time around. The dreams had changed Yondu, made him realize he couldn't keep pushing Peter away or allowing their dysfunctional relationship to keep going as is. Problem was, he didn't know how to fix it.
"I ain't kickin' you out." he finally said half into his glass which he drained before looking over at him. Peter's damp hair was sticking out in different directions and he couldn't help but get a blend of memories - the kid on the spaceship and the kid in Missouri, both with the same wild hair that wouldn't get tamed until he was older and let it grow out. Prison had made him cut it shorter than usual it seemed. "And you still owe me for that TV." He pointed the glass at him before refilling it and handing it to Peter with just the hint of a smirk and a glint of humor in his eye. The underwear thing - well he'd let that go. That was just one of those moments neither of them ever spoke about.
Peter's legs stilled and he tried, really really tried, to come up with a smart quip, some half-ass remark, something. "Oh." That was all Peter could say in response to Yondu. Not the TV thing, although yeah, Peter probably should pay him back at some point for that. He only got like $50 out of it too. It was the whole not kicking him out thing. That was, to Peter, the strangest thing. The nice manners never lasted longer than a day or two, and really, Peter was sure he was pushing it with the naked routine and all.
"Yeah. Okay. Cool." And then more one-word answers slipped out, and Peter had to close his eyes and basically say the last thing he ever thought he'd say. "Thanks, Yondu. I ...appreciate it." Another bout of silence, until Peter gave a sniffle and realized that once again, he was about to cry. What the fuck was up with that? Coughing loudly to cover it up, he reached up and rubbed at his eyes. "Wow, I'm tired. Yeah. So if you have anything you need fixed while I'm here, I mean, I'm still pretty good with my hands and you're super old so this place is probably falling apart. And on top of that, your lawn probably looks like shit under that snow, so yeah, I mean, I got a lot of work to keep me busy while I'm here since you're probably going to give me some invoice each month, so yeah. Cool."
Yondu's eyebrows raised at the thank you. Well damn, another Christmas miracle, Peter actually thanking him for something without an ounce of sass.
Then Yondu heard the sniffle, saw the cover up and it was all he could do to keep his own emotions at bay; because for the briefest of moments he saw dream Peter's stricken expression as the stars of outer space dazzled around them - Yondu's last moment before he died. Dammit. The banished tears came back in the form of a lump in his throat, and the only thing he had go make it go away was the proffered liquor Peter hadn't taken. Yondu retracted the glass and took a big swig, letting the whiskey burn the lump away.
"Sit your ass down, boy, and take a drink. We can talk details later." He poured into the glass again, checked the whiskey bottle, and gave Peter the bottle to polish off. "Merry Christmas, asshole."