trembling before your own greatness
The bar has the same musty smell that all of these seedy, backwater planet bars have, and Peter really doesn’t want to do this mission.
At twelve years old, people (and can they even be called people?) are starting to look at him like he’s something worthwhile. Peter stopped being “the cute little kid with his big brother” or “the adorable little boy with his daddy,” and became “the sweet thing with the pretty eyes.”
Yondu says that it’s a good thing and lessens the chances of Peter being eaten, because he’s more useful now, but Peter notices the change in Yondu’s grip on his shoulder when the stares change from glancing to gawking.
Peter doesn’t dare to call Yondu out on this, partly in fear of angering his captain and partly in fear that Yondu will stop. He feels safer with a renowned Ravager’s meaty hand clamped over his shoulder.
But none of that matters right now. Because Yondu isn’t here, and Peter has a mission to complete.
He slips onto a stool and the man behind the bar leers at Peter with what he probably thinks is a charming grin. Peter spares a thought about what the age of adulthood is on whatever planet the grey-skinned man is from because he definitely does not qualify. Nonetheless, he has a job to do, and if he doesn’t do it, then Yondu will let the crew eat him. Peter really doesn’t want to be eaten.
So he leans into the touch when the bartender reaches out to tuck his hair behind his ear and leaves his callous hand in light brown locks. Smiles at him with white teeth. Plays into the flirting.
The man’s hand is rough and heavy on Peter’s head (not like Yondu’s).
Peter has never flirted with anyone in his life, at least not with such high stakes. However, he’s spent an alarming amount of time sitting in questionable bars, bored to death, while the Ravagers drank until they couldn’t see straight. In that time, he’d watch people; he’d watch all sorts of genders flirting with one another. He likes to think he’s picked up enough to put it to use. Hopefully. Because, otherwise, Peter is royally screwed.
“It’s so cool that you work at a bar,” Peter comments, an innocent quirk to his lips.
The man smiles boastfully, retracting his hand from Peter’s hair, and crosses his giant arms. “Don’t jus’ work ‘ere. I own it.”
Immediately, Peter leans forward and beams all the wider. “Really? No way! That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, it’s all mine, baby. Including an apartment upstairs…”
Internally, Peter tries not to gag at the demented taste and horrible flirting that the man possesses. Externally, he smirks and suggests that he should see what the apartment looks like when the bar closes.
The man gets a wild look in his eye, claiming that “the bar closes whenever I like, baby. I’s the boss, after all.”
Peter pauses, his simper frozen on his face, because what the fuck, this was not part of the plan, when he catches Kraglin sneaking from the bar’s back room, something roundish and shiny clutched in his hand.
Recognizing his importance, Peter quickly resumes his smile and leans in further, whispering, “Let me go freshen up, and then I’m all yours, big guy.”
The man leers at him with pointy teeth as Peter retreats to the bathroom. He has to avoid a fight and two throw up piles on the way, but he makes it there.
And as soon as he’s in the bathroom, Peter is shimmying out of the window with a “Fuck no. I am never doing that again.”
It’s only as soon as his boots hit the dusty ground that a hands clamps over his shoulder and spins him around. Reflexively, Peter goes for the knife in his jacket, but then he realizes that his attacker is just Kraglin.
“You got it?”
“Fuck yeah, I got it. Let’s go, kid.”
They hurry away from the bar, Kraglin staggering like he’s had too much to drink, and Peter supporting his weight like a good friend. No one stops them, and they make it back to the Eclector easily.
When they come in through the starboard hatch, Yondu is waiting for them. Kraglin passes him the… thing and continues on his way to the mess hall for some grub.
Yondu’s red eyes turn on Peter, and a blue hand reaches out to ruffle his hair. Yondu looks satisfied, a pleased chuckle escaping his throat. “Good job, boyo.”
“Thanks, sir.” Peter replies, a warm feeling pooling gooey-like in his chest, and he walks past his captain to retreat to his bunk.
After three day cycles, the the Eclector finds its way onto Cygnus X-1, where Yondu takes Kraglin, Tulk, and Peter to visit the Collector. Yondu has whatever shiny thing Peter flirted his dignity away for hidden in his coat, so Peter knows that that is what they are trading.
He tries to focus on the matter at hand, like a grown Ravager would, but he’s distracted by the smells and sights of Cygnus X-1. There are peals of children’s laughter and the rapid-fire speaking of adults. There is the savory smell of some type of street food and the sugary-sweet scent of a dessert stand right next to it.
Peter is so distracted that he doesn’t realize they’ve stopped until he bumps into Kraglin outside of the Collector’s building. Kraglin shoots him a look over his shoulder and then they’re walking again.
The Collector is a tall, white-haired man. Peter thinks he looks like the supervillain from one of his old comic books back on Earth.
“Ah, Yondu!” The man greets. “Always a pleasure.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Yondu grunts, rolling his eyes. “I’ve got yer do-hickey. Now for my half a mil.”
The Collector grins sharply, but he snaps his fingers, and a red-skinned girl emerges holding a silk bag.
“Half a million credits,” the Collector announces, “As we agreed.”
Yondu hands the item to Tulk, who carries it over to the Collector while the red-skinned girl tosses the bag to Yondu.
Yondu peaks inside the bag and then smiles, all crooked and full of yellow teeth, with false politeness. “A pleasure.”
They all turn to leave, stopping only when the Collector gasps.
“The boy,” the white-haired man exclaims, “How much?”
Yondu turns around. “Excuse the hell outta me?”
“How much for the boy?” The Collector reiterates, “I need a pretty little Terran for my collection.”
Peter gasps and staggers behind Kraglin and Tulk.
“Not fer sale,” Yondu growls, turning to Peter and digging his fingers into the boy’s shoulder.
Peter allows himself to feel relieved for all of one moment before “5 million,” resounds from behind them, and Yondu stops dead in his tracks.
This is it, Peter thinks.
But Yondu doesn’t even turn this time. Just growls through gritted teeth, “Not. Fer. Sale.”
Peter doesn’t complain about the finger-shaped bruises on his skin after their visit.