Thanks to all of my amazing commenters! You gave me the motivation to start this chapter. Any sort of feedback is such a boost, and I really can't express how much it means that you took the time to leave a review.

Credit for Yondu and Kraglin's trinket joke goes to Harvey and Donna's tin opener.

Peter = 18

"Yondu!" That's what he calls him now. Not captain. Never sir.

Somehow, it matters that whatever respect Quill'd held for him has dwindled. But it shouldn't – so Yondu decides that his mind's playing tricks on him, and battens any feelings on the matter under a hearty dollop of amusement. He turns to meet him, mimicking the same aggrieved tone of voice: "Quill!"

Quill, for once in his life, gets straight to the point. Crosses his arms and stands up tall – because he is tall now; might even have an inch on Yondu, and growing to boot. Shoulda quit feeding him back when he was small enough to use as an armrest. "So when'm I getting shore leave?"

Oho. That's what this is about.

Course, kid's eighteen now. Giving precisely zero fucks for Empire sanctioned ages-of-consent, Yondu'd determined Quill mature enough to do as he pleased one and a bit years ago. He'd celebrated the occasion by dragging him to a bar in the middle of Knowhere, declaring him to be in Open Season, and ceasing his subtle deterrence (read: loud threatening) of anyone who offered to buy the kid a drink. Everyone on board's too terrified to look at him twice though, just in case their captain was joking – so even if Peter was interested in pimple-chinned Ravager rookies, they'd all rather hop into an escape pod than his bunk. Given their lacking enthusiasm and Yondu's adamant refusal that any of Quill's bodily fluids come into contact with the M-ship he still technically owns (owned), Peter's teenaged hormones can be sated on planetside alone. As Peter himself has been confined to ship for the past month, that hand of his must be getting mighty sore.

But, considering the circumstances, he ain't got no one but himself to blame. Yondu returns his attention to where it's more needed – rearranging his trinket collection.

Kraglin found him a glittery snowglobe last week. He's outdone himself: this tchotchke's so twinkly that Yondu needs to heap the others around it so it don't distract him when he's working. Kraglin's nothing if not a canny shit though, and he'll find out if he chucks it, so Yondu's makes do with building a tower of his largest and heaviest baubles in the hopes that the next time the galleon takes fire, they'll avalanche and smash the damn thing.

This hobby's been going on for years. Its longevity is mostly due to Peter's irritation when captain and first mate refuse to cue him in on the joke, and nowadays keeping its origins from him is more funny than the actual story of how all those shiny little figurines began to accumulate. Doesn't stop Yondu from accepting the kid's own contribution.

Sure enough, Peter spots a familiar pink tuft of hair, swears, and leans over him to pluck his troll doll from the mound. "Seriously? You nicked it? Again?"

Yondu gives his customary answer of "Shouldn't make it so easy to steal then," and goes right back to ignoring him.

Quill's first M-ship (the Oberon; heck knew what it meant but Yondu'd quit bothering to remember Quill's references within a week of acquiring him) had met its infernal demise four weeks prior, when he decided fiddling with his tape deck was more important than steering. Best thing to come outta the crash was that his walkthing had been damaged, and was mangling the songs so badly not even Quill could stand listening to them. But anyway – that Quill has the balls to ask for shore leave after that fuck-up was impressive; or it might have been eight years ago, when Yondu'd still been wondering whether initiating the Terran had been a stroke of genius or the biggest mistake of his life.

Nowadays he knows he oughta have abandoned him on some Nova-owned satellite, so he could be given a proper upbringing and all that crap. Not because Peter isn't tough enough for the Ravager way of life, as he'd first suspected, but rather because he's worked out that Yondu is, for some inexplicable reason, mildly more reluctant to kill him than the rest of his employees. And now that he considers himself an adult, he's milking that meagre inch of lenience for all it's worth.

Which means Yondu's gotta come down harder on him if he wants to keep him in line. Or more importantly, if he wants to stifle those annoying murmurs that've been creeping through the crew lately: that he's gone soft and thinks of the kid as his own.

That's the stinkiest load of bullshit Yondu's ever had the misfortune to eavesdrop on.

But it don't change the fact that it's what the crew's thinking – and not just the low-ranking nobodies he can off on a quiet night-cycle while the rest are none the wiser. Oh no. Horuz was the one to recall that story of how captain and kid had fallen asleep on Bridge; the one which'd been amusing at the time but is a whole lot more humiliating once you've seen the cheeky pic Kraglin snapped. Horuz is also an ugly, fat old windbag, whose skull scarcely has space to harbour orneriness, beard follicles, and gossip all at once. But that doesn't mean he don't have influence, what with having been a Ravager since before Yondu wore red. When a guy like that starts complaining, you've got a problem on your hands. When a guy like that starts complaining because his captain'd had the audacity to look cute and cuddly rather than fuck-your-eye-sockets ferocious, the problem becomes a potential catastrophe.

Well. Horuz hadn't actually said that. If he had, not even his less-expendable-than-most status would've saved him. But Yondu's brain had supplied it, and the overheard tête-à-tête between Horuz and Nav chief had left him contemplating how much he really needed a bo'sun.

Or a first mate.

Luckily for Kraglin, he's also the best damn haggler outside of a Xandarian auction house. That doesn't stop Yondu from grimly studying his largest, heaviest trinket; a hunk of flawed volcanic diamond carved from an unstable moon, in whose indigo depths the galaxy twinkles in miniature; and balancing it at the very top of the mountain, so that when the landslide starts it'll be first to fall.

Peter eyes the snowglobe, sparkling prettily in the big rock's shadow. "Uh, y'know that's gonna break, right?"

"Countin' on it," Yondu growls. He pushes to his feet, swinging his coat over his shoulders, and barges Peter out of the way as he heads for the cabin door. "Quit bein' so big, wouldya?"

"Give me shore leave," says Quill smartly, sidling after him, "and you won't have to worry about me getting in the way. I'll be outta your hair." Yondu gives him a look. "So to speak."

The door makes a funny squeak when it clicks to, kinda like someone treading on a duckling in slow motion. Quill winces – way too blatant; he thought he'd trained that outta him – but Yondu can't be bothered to perform his usual inspection and decide how to upgrade the lock next. Kid breaks into his quarters whenever he feels the urge to pester him anyway. By now, Yondu's gone through enough aggravation searching for a mechanism too complex for Peter's clever fingers that he figures he might as well suck it up, call it training, and pretend this was his intention all along.

"Pay me back for that M-ship an' we'll talk about shore leave," he says, not for the first time. Not for the first time, Quill groans and reminds him that he's paid for the damn spacecraft five times over in manual child labour. Also not for the first time, Yondu snickers and replies that that's his own stupid fault for working for free.

But it's certainly the first time that Quill dares keep bartering.

He lengthens his stride, catching up to Yondu, and catches him by the shoulderplate. "Y'know, there's factions where my skills'd be better appreciated," he says. Takes a deep breath. Musters his limited experience in the fine art of intimidation, and concentrates it into a glare. "P'raps I oughta desert."

That's new. Yondu peers back at him, taking in the pout that's gradually solidifying into a clenched jaw, the angry set of his eyebrows, and the steely glint beneath that's informing him the kid means every word. Then he laughs so hard he strains a muscle in his side.

"Heck," he says, wiping tears. "Thas a good 'un."

He gives Quill his shore leave though.

Only one cycle of it, and a whole fortnight later – long enough that he can pretend it's in reward for the boy's part in their latest job. Kid'd done well, cracking that safe before the alarm tripped. Even he admits it. Not out loud or anything, although when he comes back to his quarters after debriefing the Bridge crew to find Quill spinning round and round on his chair, he mutters something about at least all that hackin' of my lock paid off. Quill's up immediately, demanding a day to waste fucking barmaids on the nearest satellite. And Yondu, chucking the prize from hand to hand – egg of an extinct avian species, as commissioned by the Collector – shrugs, and grants it.

Peter's so surprised he actually blurts "Thanks!" Then remembers that he doesn't owe Yondu nothing, seeing as he never wanted to be pressganged into a Ravager uniform in the first place (bollocks, in Yondu's opinion; but he figures he shouldn't stunt the kid's creativity), and snaps his mouth shut.

Yondu laughs again. Then winces at the tug in his pulled oblique, and has to fumble to prevent the egg, along with two thousand units, shattering on the floor. "Use protection," is all he says. "Ain't no one footing the bill if you come back needin' venereal vacs."

Peter doesn't catch an STI. He does, however, catch a particularly brutal strain of Xandarian flu, one that's not covered by the multiple injections Yondu'd punched him full of when he first arrived, to prevent his feeble Terran immune system from buckling under the strain of exposure to a broad and unhygienic galaxy. Judging by when the first shivers hit, it takes under a week to incubate. Just enough time for Peter to complete a solo and proudly tell Yondu it won't be long before he can support himself, before eating his own words when he keels over next day on the Bridge.

"Rest, fluids, quiet," says Doc, flashing his light-pen in Peter's eyes. "He'll be fine."

Peter, snot dribbling from every visible orifice (and potentially from a few non-visible ones too; who knows how the Terran autoimmune response operates) doesn't look convinced. But he can't talk because his tonsils are the approximate size of hand grenades, and the one time he tried he sounded so ridiculous Yondu had been cackling too loudly to hear what had been said. Given that he sounds like he's been gargling gravel on his good days, it was probably 'hypocrite'.

But whatever. He's got a drippy teenaged Terran on his hands, one who looks even more pathetic than usual. And pink. Very, very pink. Yondu tilts his head at him. "He meant to be that colour?"

Doc's turned back to his other patients. Given the bust-up they'd gotten into on their last multi-man job – bagged the booty though, and that was all that mattered – all are in dire need of his attention. But when the captain came barging through with a sneezy kid hanging off his shoulder, and demanded to know whether he needed to be shoved in quarantine, he was smart enough not to argue. "It's a fever. Capillaries widening under the surface of the skin."

Curious, Yondu presses the pad of his thumb into Quill's cheek, as hard as he can. Quill burbles and dazedly swats, but doesn't do any damage, and when Yondu withdraws, the blue digit leaves a pale print for the splitmost of seconds before the blood swamps back in. "Huh. I need t'worry about this?" Then freezes. "Not that I'm, uh –"

Doc decides it would be an excellent moment to drop his mediscanner. The clatter is loud enough that, when he retrieves it, he can justify asking "Did you say something?"

"Just askin' when he'll be back on his feet. Ain't worth much to me on bedrest." He even makes it sound smooth.

Doc gives him his answer as he wrestles a gag between the first patients teeth and starts digging shrapnel out of his shoulder with a pair of alcohol-dipped tweezers, shouting over the muffled screams – "Two days, for the fever to break! If it takes any longer, or tops 104 degrees, shove him in an ice bath and come fetch me!"

Paying no attention to the unfortunate Ravager, whose wrists are straining at the leather straps on the table and whose companions are clutching their own wounds in nauseous trepidation, Yondu frowns as he pieces together the meaning behind Doc's words. "Wait – ya mean he ain't staying here?"

If he hadn't been busy levering scorched metal out of the man's ribs, Doc would've rolled his eyes. "Rest, fluids, and quiet. Now please – I need to work."

There's few and far between who Yondu lets get away with talking to him like that. Okay – not so far between if you count Quill, who's roughly six foot from the doctor's side. But you don't argue with medics. At least, not if you don't want the painkiller stock to be mysteriously depleted next time you stagger in with a hole in your belly.

Speaking of, whatever the poor sod on the operating table's done to deserve Doc's wrath, Yondu hopes it was worth it. He gets Quill off the bed through a combination of swearing and careful leverage – boy's gone all floppy, and while his weight ain't a problem his enduring attempts to liquefy are. Eventually, he hooks one limp arm over his shoulder and grabs Quill by the waist, setting off from the medbay at a brisk enough walk that Quill's dragging feet can't keep up and he winds up using his bootcaps to dust the floor. Yondu glowers at anyone who dares look their way. He's so busy making sure that anyone who spots them knows at a glance that he ain't doing this of his own volition, that he completely misses Quill's dorm and smacks himself in the forehead when he realizes he's drawn to a halt outside his own damn door.

What the hell though. Doc said he needed quiet – ain't like he's gonna get that with rowdy bunkmates above and below. S'just one night, right? Once the fever breaks he can dump him to sweat it out on his lonesome. Plus, after the effort it took to lug him this far without tripping over the bundle of dragging limbs Quill's devolved into, Yondu ain't gonna retrace his steps.

"Hope ya don't mind the floor," he grunts as he shoulders open the door, because certain rules about giving up his bedspace still apply. He's kind enough to donate a couple of blankets though, and bundles his trenchcoat up for good measure, slotting it into the space between the chilly metal and Quill's blazing forehead.

He's too dry for being that hot. Heck, Yondu's used to Peter being several degrees his cooler; having the press of his skin feel more like touching a sun-warmed hull plate than a corpse is unnerving.

When that's settled and Peter's coughing feebly into his fur-lined collar – and he can give his coat a full steam and sterilize after this, seeing as his species leak germy secretions like unplugged bathtubs – Yondu checks his chronometer and figures it's too late to faff about with stock rotation. And if sponging snot of a snivelly Terran means he don't have to deal with it in the morning either, well, that's a bonus.

"Alright," he says, clapping his hands for darkness. He knows his room well enough to shuffle to the nest blind, and sinks into it with no little relief. Not every day you watch your pet Terran collapse, after all. At least only Kraglin'd been on Bridge at the time, otherwise Yondu might've had to whistle at anyone who had anything smart to say about him rushing over and smacking Peter's face until he was coherent enough to croak that he wasn't helping. "G'night. Ya need anything, say now." Quill makes a crackly noise that might, in some part of the universe, be translatable. Yondu yanks off his undershirt and kicks it to join his pants at the nest's lower lip, stretches out, and sniggers. "Yeah, s'what I thought."

If he needs to piss in the night, he might trip over the shivery sod. But other than that, Yondu's got enough trust in the Doc to be reassured that Peter ain't in no danger. Any discomfort's just karma, biting him in the ass for that charred wreckage of an M-ship that's turning slow somersaults in an asteroid field off Betelgeuse.

Peter's cold.

Peter used to be cold a lot, but he's pretty well adapted to the Eclector's malfunctioning temperature gauges now, and has invested in several sets of stretchy thermal underclothes that keep him toasty through anything up to a coolant leak. Sometimes, if it gets real chilly, he activates his space helmet and lets the forcefield wash over him, soothing his goosebumps and reflecting as much of his bodyheat back onto him as it lets escape. Do that now though, and he'll risk gumming up the lenses next time he sneezes. And – well, there's another solution. One that's snoring quietly in his nest, who if he's not infected by now isn't likely to be after a quick round of snuggling (bed sharing; Peter and Yondu do not ever, would not ever, snuggle) and who, as experience has adjudicated, doesn't perceive Quill as enough of a threat to shoot in his sleep.

If only he can walk that distance without falling on his face.

Peter shoves two fingers up his nose to stifle the sneeze. Draws them out, moaning, and wipes them on Yondu's coat. Then huddles the blankets tighter around him, and arduously struggles to sit, kneel, and stand. The latter lasts under a second. The shadowed room – what little he can see of it – spirals like the matter's being siphoned into a miniature black hole, and Peter finds himself back on his knees rather sooner than he'd anticipated.

The crash isn't hugely noisy, but he holds his breath nevertheless. Releases it to cough. Then holds it again. Yondu garbles a few of those weird, nonsensical clicks, but his implant's not glowing and those eerie red eyes remain shut.

Peter's measured exhale is broken by another aborted sneeze, and he makes his way to the bunk at a steady crawl. The rim might as well be Everest. It takes him what feels like the good part of an hour to heave himself up and over, torso first, then legs clumsily rolling after. He counts himself lucky that he doesn't wind up on top of Yondu, which, heavy sleeper or not, would wake him, and probably result in a stint in the brig regardless of how sick he is. Jackass.

But eventually, Peter's made it. His muscles ache from the strain – which is all kinds of pathetic; but Yondu's here and Yondu's… not warm, for once. Which is odd, but unlike the floor, at least he's not actively giving him frostbite. Peter shivers again. He wriggles until his head's in Yondu's armpit, rearranging the outflung blue legs until he can tuck along the line of Yondu's side. Given where his nose is, it probably don't smell all that great. But right now, he's too stuffed up to care.

Peter snorts a snotty bubble, grumbles as Yondu twitches and kicks him in the shin, snores amping, and drops his fever-heavy arm over his waist so he can't roll away.

Not often Yondu wakes up overheating. Not unless the engines are malfunctioning or they're all risking death-by-solar-flare. First thing he does is expand his senses, pushing outwards from his implant, wondering if the yaka-link will pick up on any radiation leaks. There's nothing, besides the usual cosmic buzz; atoms splitting and fusing in the heart of far-off stars. He can't smell anything out of the ordinary either – yet he could swear that his right side's been doused in gasoline and set alight.

Perhaps he oughta do something about that.

Groaning, Yondu sits up. Or tries to. Another strip of fire is resting over his belly, weighty as an anvil. When he sleepily elbows it off the relief lasts only a moment. Then it flops back down onto his solar plexus, punching the air out of him.

"Oof –"

Whatever that strip is, it moves, coiling around him like the muscles of a constrictor, and for a dazy, half-awake moment, Yondu's transported back to the Centaurii jungle.Snake. He tenses, tightening his abdominal panel as best he can, because if he allows any give the critter'll squeeze in and refuse to relinquish it, and licks his lips in preparation to whistle.

Then Quill gives his armpit a frail head-butt, and says "Quit moving" in a voice that's raspier than his.

Yondu pinches the bridge of his nose. Then whistles anyway.

That wakes Quill properly – regardless of how fever-wracked his brain is, it can't misinterpret the sound of immanent death. "Shit! Shit – Yondu?"

"Who'd ya think you were huggin'?" Yondu spits. "Whoever gave ya this bug, I sure as hell ain't her." He leads the arrow in a spinning dance around the both of their skulls, a threat display clear enough to percolate the inch of inflamed sinus between Quill's face and his brain. But the glow of his implant brightens enough to show that the kid's not coherent enough to focus on it. When whistling it to hang an inch in front of Quill's white-ringed pupil yields no better effects, he mutters a "shit" of his own and plucks it out of the air.

"M'sorry," Quill burbles, as he claps for the lights, then presses the back of his hand to his forehead.

"Shit," Yondu says again. It's about as eloquent as he gets at this time of the morning, but there's no need to elaborate: 'shit' pretty much encapsulates all he needs to say. Quill's even hotter than before. Two days, the doctor said? Fever'd better break soon, or he'll evaporate. Yondu snaps his fingers. "You need. Uh. Fluids, right? Water." Peter sneezes miserably at him. "And a towel. Thas fuckin' gross."

"M'sorry," he says again. Reaches for the buds of his walkthing, then shudders when his finger's close on empty air. "Where's my… where's my…"

Of course he'd be asking after that. Yondu flashes to the days Peter spent snuffling and wailing until his engineer crew deemed the tape player impossible to be used offensively, or at least, unlikely to do much damage if it was. He warily watches his lip for any sign or wibbling. Fever or not, if Quill cries at eighteen, Yondu's justified in firing him. "Broke, remember?"

Peter's chin makes a miniscule quaver, but he controls it. "Oh. Y-yeah. Think you could get it for me anyway?"

Great. Now he's stuck playing nursemaid. Yondu pulls away, frowning when the wash of air over his bared back registers as cold rather than comfortable – but that's what he gets for conking out hard enough to let a feverish Terran get the jump on him. "I'm getting ya water," he says, hoisting Peter's ankles to rescue his pants. "Don't get greedy."

"Please."

"What's in it for me? Then I gotta listen to you pumping yer daft beats all day."

"I'm not gonna turn it on. Jus… jus hold it. Please, Yondu. Please."

Yondu pauses, halfway through burrowing into his shirt – why are there never enough elbow holes when you're tired? – and squints under the thick fabric to find Peter wilted over the nestside, staring at him. Well. As close to him as he can get, what with his dizzy vision. Huffing, he tugs the shirt down. "Better you hug that than me, I guess. Don't never say I didn't do nothin' for ya."

And he stomps out the door before the words can register, and Peter's dumb pink face can split into a grateful smile.

Quill's true to his word. Doesn't even hum – not that he's got the voice for it at the moment. It's almost painful watching him force himself to stay silent as Yondu ploughs through that stock arrangement he's been putting off and allocates the next round of contract jobs, taking the odd call and leaving threatening messages on the commscreens of any who've skimped on payment. He even stifles his sneezes. By the time Yondu's finished, he's almost forgotten he's there.

He creaks upright, fancying a stretch of the legs and a trip to the practice rooms before dropping in on the engines for a surprise inspection – he ain't been down there in a while, and it never does a captain good to go long without ensuring his fission core's hot enough that he won't be waking up to a hold overflowing with radioactive waste. Quill coughs. Just once. He swallows it guiltily, glancing from beneath a fringe just dampening with the first hints of breaking fever-sweat, to check on his reaction. Yondu raises eyebrows at him. Then scoffs, and marches over to shake the canteen he's left in guzzling distance, the one which Quill's neglected in favour of cradling his busted walkkthing. "This better be empty by the time I get back," is all he says.

If he gives Peter shoreleave at the next tech spot, once he's fighting fit again, and mentions the name of a geek who he knows to be a whizz at all that vintage analogue era, pre-plasma crud in passing conversation; well, that's his business.

Cookies to anyone who works out why Quill's first ship was called the Oberon.

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