Guardian Records was a big place -- rent in Preya was reasonable and Peter had picked this spot out practically a year ago now. He'd liked it for how open it was, for the big front windows and its industrial looking cement walls (great for posters), for the fact that it had a separate room in back for an office. It had great acoustics too, and he'd made fast work of setting up a sound system.
Right now, Paul Simon was proclaiming that he could be called Al over them -- not too loud, but certainly not quiet enough to ignore, either.
The register was behind a counter that was just a big square in the middle of the store, and in any direction there were short aisle of records, CDs, merch.
For all that Peter had spent practically his entire life in space doing either pirate or galaxy saving (and sometimes both at once!) things, this was the little spot in Preya that he'd decided to make his own. It was home in a way that no real house could ever be. It was his. It was his pride and it was a comfort.
And right now, even though he'd never ever admit it, Peter Quill needed some measure of comfort. Things had not gone well for him during his time away.
When Steve entered, his heart sort of did an awful thing where it clenched, sped up a little. Awkward. This wasn't his Steve, who he and Evaan had spent so much time drinking and commiserating with. This was a different one. He couldn't expect anything to remain how it had been. But it didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Stark had called him plucky once, and it was a word that did aptly describe him, even if he'd never heard it before then. "Hey!" He called, his head popping up over the register from where he'd been dusting shelves down below, eyebrows raised high. "You're here!" Of course he was. He was still Steve.