Who: Peter Quill and Yondu's voicemail Where: Near the Orange County Central Men's Jail When: Christmas morning What: Calling in a favour (narrative) Rating: Low Status: Complete
It had taken everything out of Peter to pick up the phone. He’d found probably the last phone booth in Orange County and from the smell, he was sure it was used more as a bathroom. Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t been arrested with a phone so when he left prison, they didn’t provide him with one. When he’d received his items, he was actually shocked at how little he had. Is that all my life amounts to? An iPod (woefully out of date), a warm sandwich, and the clothes he was wearing. The jail generously let him keep his shoes which was great, considering he was on the can when they arrested him, shoeless.
This second stint in prison was different than the first. The first, well, it may have been juvie, but it was still for kids. The care was implicit, the counsellors and resources actually cared, and the food was somewhat decent. This time, he was an adult, stuck with murderers, arsonists, rapists – violence everywhere. He’d done things in jail that he wasn’t particularly proud of, looked the other way when asked to, looked WAY the other way on some occasions but he hadn’t participated. Of that much he had let everyone know – Peter Quill was no fucking snitch but he wasn’t going to risk staying in for longer than he had to. Sure, he’d had to take a few punches, but hadn’t Yondu always said that Peter’s head wasn’t good for nothin’ but a few hits? Yondu.
That’s what had him hesitating by the phone. The weird scruffy old Southern man who somehow was the only last link to Meredith, and in a way, Peter’s last chance at maybe, just maybe, going back to a normal life. The only problem was he didn’t know if he was still in the same place. Fuck it. With a sigh, Peter picked up the phone and dialed the last numbers he had ever thought he’d call again. And wouldn’t you know – voicemail. At the familiar sound of Yondu’s voice, Peter could almost feel memories rushing back.
“Yondu.” Did his voice just break? Clearing it, he tried again. “Yondu. It’s me. I need a place. Well. A couch anyways. You got one you can put in the yard or something for me? We’ll kill each other if we’re in the same house, but yeah …I got nothin’.” He paused for a moment, gingerly leaning against the side of the booth, one hand cupping his elbow. “Nothing. I’m out and yeah. The front yard is good. Or garage. Maybe a garage. Anyways. I got no number, you have no way of getting a hold of me, and I have a vague idea of where you live so yeah. Expect me.”
With a click, he hung up and leaned his forehead on the phone for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. Why was his heart racing? What was this feeling? This was bullshit, that’s what it was, but what other options did he have?
Sniffling loudly, he wiped a hand across his face (and pretended to be surprised when he saw the tear marks on his palm) and looked around. He had a long walk ahead of him. “Come on feet,” he said to himself. “One at a time, that’s all we gotta do. And then I promise – I’m buying you socks.”