*Author's Note*

For those of you who follow me because of my Sherlock fic, please know, I am not abandoning the fandom. I simply got stuck while working on a few other pieces (all Sherlock related), and just needed to try something new. So, after a few free writing sessions, this is what we've got. *bites nails*

I have been a Marvel fan from my earliest childhood memories. I've just never been brave enough to try writing fic. But, with the impending doom of Infinity War looming, and the encouragement of notjustmom, I thought I'd try my hand at it. Though I'm a Marvel fan, my first foray into the world of Guardians of the Galaxy was with the films, and I have no prior experience with the comics or graphic novels. So, what you read here is based on my take of the characters from film, and a very flimsy hunt and search for minor details (some of which I will share in future author notes). I don't know much about character backgrounds, so this story is really just for fun. I'm sorry if it's woefully inaccurate, for those of you who truly know your stuff.

"What d'you think you're doin', boy?"

A sharp smack to the back of the head and Peter found himself gripping the controls, braced for a fight. "I'm docking my ship so I can go do my mission. Asshole."

"What was that?" Another smack to the back of the head. Kraglin stepped into his space and snarled, "Speak up, boy."

Peter ducked another smack and gritted his teeth. "I said, I'm docking my ship so I can go do my mission." He glanced up and over his shoulder at Yondu's first mate and dictator-by-proxy, and smirked. "Then I called you asshole, asshole." He jerked the controls and sent Kraglin stumbling backwards. The momentum wasn't enough to lay him flat, but it was enough that he'd have an embarrassing bruise on his face from the console he'd smacked into.

"Shouldn'a done that, meat sack." Kraglin lunged as Peter levelled the ship out, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and wrenched him from his seat. "Cap'n don't take kindly to disrespect." He tossed Peter to the floor and loomed over him.

At fourteen, Peter was nearly as tall as Kraglin, and definitely as broad (both scrappy and lean), though Kraglin's years of hard work and even harder living had him at the advantage. For the time being. It was only a matter of time before Peter would outgrow him, and they both knew it. But for now, he was driven by the giddiness of power lust at having been appointed sole overseer of the kid's first true solo "acquisition."

"Mission," Kraglin spat and kicked Peter's boots. "This ain't one of your fancy hero picture books, asshole, this is thieving. This is our life. Your life."

"Well I didn't choose it, did I?" Peter stood and bumped Kraglin with his shoulder as he shoved his way to the pilot's seat.

"You think you're better'n me?" Kraglin grabbed him by the arm and shoved him hard out of the way. "Just because Yondu had pity on yer puny ass don't mean he cares about you. Just 'cause he lent you this bucket of bolts, you ain't special." He dropped into the seat, took the controls, and glared up at Peter. "You ain't done learnin' yet, boy." He dropped the ship out of the docking queue and cut haphazardly through the congested traffic.

"The Milano is not a bucket of bolts. And she's mine, Yondu said." Peter huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, not caring how young it made him appear. "The hell are you doing, anyway? I had a spot."

"Well, your spot was right out in the open marketplace." Kraglin narrowly navigated a turn, whistling a cheerful tune as he scraped the side of the ship along a stalled and rusted transport vessel. Peter grumbled and fought the urge to throw a punch. "People recognize Ravagers, moron. We don't fit in with those la-di-da dressin', pompous food eatin', fancy bathing folks…"

"Bathing? Bathing is not... that's not a valid argument. Try it some time. You might like it." Peter slid into the navigator's seat and shoved his walkman and headphones into his backpack. "I know I'd like it if you did."

"Do you ever shut up?" Kraglin pulled into another docking queue, this one surrounded by crumbling walls, dilapidated buildings, and businesses of every questionable nature. "No wonder Yondu wants to kill you 'n fry you up. You never learn your damn place."

"Where are we?" Peter leaned forward to get a better view of the filth and debauchery passing by.

"Purty ain't it? Reminds me of home."

"The other dock was closer to my pick-up site." The "and safer" was implied. Frowning at a group of rough and broken down androids eyeing the Milano, Peter turned to Kraglin. "I'll still have a ship if we dock here, right? You'll watch her?"

"Pfff," Kraglin waved him off. "Ain't going with, if that's what yer asking. This is your gig, kid. You'll get no interference from me." He eased the ship into the first free docking station, then let her drop onto the anchor with a jarring crash. The crowds milling around the dock turned and stared with no small degree of malice.

Peter groaned as he tugged on his ragged jacket, still too big after six years, and shoved the too long sleeves up his arms. The coat was maroon with a Ravagers patch he'd hand sewn on himself, identifying him with Yondu's faction, and was coarse wool because he hadn't yet earned the leather one. He slung his pack over one shoulder, and waited for Kraglin to lower the hatch for him.

"Good luck, Quill. Yer gonna need it." Kraglin laughed.

"Dummy says what?" Peter mumbled as he started down the ramp.

"What? What did you say, boy?"

Without looking back, Peter flashed his middle finger over his shoulder at Kraglin in a mock salute, and disappeared down the nearest alley.

*A/N*

Peter Quill was eight years old in 1988 when he was abducted from Earth by the Ravager Yondu, just after his mother's death. According to comic book lore, Yondu gave Peter an M-fighter, his ship The Milano (which he named after his TV crush, Alyssa Milano), when he was ten years old.