Chapter 4: Where the river meets the sea
Yeah, Yondu had kept the stupid rock.
The comparison had been cheesy as all hell and he'd been sure to let Quill know it. Kid wasn't gonna survive long in this universe if he were to continue wearing his weepy sentimentality so damn brazenly on his sleeve.
Quill had been mostly unaware of what had just taken place beforehand, what with Yondu's old crew crowding him and calling vehemently for his exile. Yondu had tried everything to have his case heard- intimidation, force, and finally plain old sincerity. He'd even looked to his practically surrogate father and, stifling down his pride in a way he hadn't done since slavery, he'd begged. But Stakar would not be moved. The older man's face had twisted with a multitude of things, mainly disappointment, as he'd declared Yondu unworthy.
Disgusted remarks were thrown at Yondu's back as he made his leave. Nothing he hadn't already told himself.
From this feeling of near suffocation, he'd walked outside to breathe in both fresh air and the sight of a child. Quill had asked if he could help Yondu (and that was so ironic, so dumb, so aggravatingly naïve on the kid's part that Yondu could've bust his gut laughing right there) but Yondu wasn't about to go and tell the kid why his trust was so badly misplaced. Because no, Yondu could not be helped, but regardless, he was still Quill's safest option. Also because Quill's gap toothed and dirt streaked face was beaming up at Yondu as if the sun suddenly shone out the man's ass.
The whole thing had given Yondu a weird, constricted feeling in his chest that he'd brushed off as bad indigestion.
So, yeah, he'd kept the rock. And if anyone asked, it was because it did look kind of cool.
Whispers of mutiny were sure to stir if anyone began to think otherwise. He'd made it clear in the early days that his particularly watchful eye over Quill was strictly a courtesy to ensure the child had at least a chance at survival. Kid has just been a scrawny and sappy runt, after all. Hopeless little bugger. Nevermind that Quill is practically a grown man, now; all tree trunk limbs with a barreled chest and ginger scruff. Still sappier than shit, but he's bigger and taller than Yondu, with the occasional clumsiness that betrays he's still adapting to steering this large a body.
(What he doesn't know is that one day, Peter will be thirty-four years old and a little less clumsy, ever more charismatic and utterly capable- and it still won't be enough to kick Yondu's nagging, hindersome need to be his protecting shadow.)
Granted, Quill's still creative as ever when it comes to finding new ways to give him stress ulcers. Kid's a walking beacon for trouble.
Take now, for instance.
"Cap'n?" Tullk grabs his shoulder with urgency, pointing past Yondu's head. "Is that Quill there who just took a header?"
Yondu turns and, sure enough, there's an unmistakably familiar figure tumbling down from a distance that doesn't look one bit survivable, hitting every bump and rock along the way.
"Thought we agreed you weren't gonna be a pain in my ass today, boy," Yondu gripes, all while whipping his jacket aside and giving a hasty whistle.
Peter dreams.
He is sprawled out on golden sands, watching a sky where the stars and surrounding planets are brightly visible, even in the light of day. The sea laid before him is turquoise and vast, twinkling and quiet.
It's beautiful here. But something is missing.
Peter's never been able to leave this shore. For the life of him, he can't remember why.
The sand beneath him is sun-kissed and warm; the smells of ship oil, bike leather and smoke all linger in the air. This place isn't perfect, but it's familiar, and it's safe.
Still, he's been wistfully watching the sea for who knows how long. He wants nothing more than to leave to it because he knows, just knows, he's meant for something bigger and better than here.
Like an answer to unspoken prayers he's held all his life, a small boat appears in the distance. He can just barely make out the silhouette of a faceless man. "Peter! Peter!" the man on the sea calls cheerfully, beckoningly. "Come and join me. Join me at last, my boy. The water is just fine."
The stranger's right. The water is calm and inviting, surely no more dangerous than what probably lurks on this island. So what on earth has Peter been waiting for? Overjoyed at finally having received an invitation to leave, he scrambles to his feet. His confinement has come to an end! He kicks off his boots and sheds his outer layer of clothing, taking his first step into the ocean-
-the smack of his landing and the chill of the river hit him at once, and he greets consciousness with a nice, big inhale of water.
Peter is pulled under and into the river's current, whipped around this way and that for what seems like forever, but is thankfully no more than fifteen seconds. At some point he feels a sharp tug at the nape of his jacket. Peter is forcefully yanked upwards, out of the water, and into frigid air. Dazedly, he thinks that this is what a fish must feel like as it's reeled in by a fisherman. He soars for several moments before being dropped unceremoniously onto the dirt.
A flash of red darts past his line of sight. Sluggishly, he tries to follow where it's leaving to, but the world flip-flops when he turns his head.
Peter doesn't know exactly how much time has passed before he feels hands on his chest, his neck, his face, and then he's shoved roughly onto his side. Something solid beats relentlessly at his back until he's coughing up water he'd forgotten he'd swallowed. As he's rolled onto his back, he blinks languidly up at something hovering over him, something even bluer than the sky.
"I-I really don't know what happened, boss," someone is saying when he awakens (when had he even fallen asleep?) and their voice is panicked and tight, as though they're being gripped at the collar. "I swear, we didn' push him! No one pushed him!"
"No one pushed him, huh? Then how'd he end up in the river?" a voice hisses. "Quill here just up 'n decided to waltz right off the tippy top of the cliff himself?"
"Y-yeah. I mean, not 'waltz', but he did fall," the panicky one squeaks. "Looked like he got dizzy or somethin'. He started stumblin' to one side 'n fell before any of us could grab at 'im."
"It's true, Cap'n," another one pipes up from the back, and Peter can practically hear them cower at the way Yondu must have rounded on them. "Seemed like he suddenly got real confused, or somethin'. An', well, you've seen how clumsy he can be-"
Silence follows a quick whistle. A warning.
"I s'pose none of you were the ones that slipped him the gnarly shit back at the bar, either, huh?" Yondu is snarling and boy, even through his haze, Peter can tell he's ticked. "One of you been tryin' to off Mr. Quill here? Right under my fuckin' nose? 'Cause you boys know only one man on this ship decides who lives 'n who dies- that's me."
"He's alive? How in the world did he not break his neck?" a voice that sounds like Tullk asks quizzically in the background. "Quill's gotta be the luckiest unlucky bastard I've ever met."
Peter's out again before he can vocalize his disagreement with the 'lucky' part.
The next time he's lucid enough to piece together anything going on around him, he's in the Eclector's med bay. The room is dim, but he's had enough visits to recognize the hard cot, the stiff sheets that smell too strongly of cleaning chemicals, and the whirr of the few medical monitors they've bothered to own.
"He did stop by last night, Captain," Peter can make out the puzzled voice of Doc, "but just to grab a pill for his headaches. Said he was told it'd clear him for today's mission."
"I wouldn't've needed him cleared for a headache. You tellin' me he didn't mention how he's been hallucinatin' since Moonteg? That he's been hearin' shit that ain't really there? None of that?"
Looks like Peter hasn't been here for very long, seeing as Yondu is still hanging around and asking questions. The Ravager captain looks… annoyed, to say the least, chewing away at his pick until it's a nub. Doc just looks perplexed.
Peter blinks to clear his bleary vision until it reveals a fourth presence in the room. One that easily pulls his attention away from the current conversation.
Meredith Quill reaches out to touch his face. One corner of her mouth lifts into a gentle smile. "It's alright, baby," she whispers, soft as a lullaby. But her touch is faint where he remembers it warm. As if she's barely there. "I'm here."
Peter weakly reaches up to take her hand- only to be met with air. No, he decides sadly. You're not.
Peter dreams again (or maybe he never stopped?) and the water couldn't be more perfect. Even in his treasured memories of beach trips as a child, the water had always been too cold. He laughs in rising joy. Not once is he tempted to look over his shoulder back at what he's left behind. His sights are set to the horizon, to the man who's offered him freedom at no price, to the man with kind eyes. His features are slowly becoming distinguishable as Peter gets nearer.
"Atta boy, Peter!" the man in question calls out. "Come on, now." Though he's still a ways ahead, he extends an arm out to Peter. "Almost here. You're almost here."
Both Yondu and Doc are gone the next time Peter comes to. He is alone with the soft noise of machines, and the crunch of crusty sheets as he shifts around in his discomfort. He gives his body a quick once over: he's sore from head to toe. His head feels heavy as a brick and his focus is fleeting. He's pretty sure a few bones are broken.
So, overall, not too shabby. Considering he just fell off a cliff and all.
He's about to close his eyes again, perhaps try and contemplate what the actual hell had led up to his current predicament, when a man he's never seen in his life appears at the foot of his bed.
"AGH!" Peter roars like a god ready for war (okay, it's more of a squeak; but Peter is nineteen and a famous outlaw, now, so he'd rather leave out the details that threaten his hard-earned reputation of badassery) because not only has a dude just appeared out of thin air, said dude is smiling down at him like a totalcreep. Peter quickly hoists himself up on his elbows, releasing a pained 'whoosh' of air in surprise with the movement because, yep, that is one broken collarbone. Along with a rib or three.
The man remains still as a statue, his eyes trained on Peter. "You can see me, then."
"Um, yeah, kind of hard to miss you looming over my bed there, you freak."
"Finally," the man breathes out, face illuminated with a pleased smile as he moves to Peter's side.
Peter doesn't care; broken bones or no, he rolls right off the opposite side of the cot and hits the ground with a yelp. "Hey! Someone, get in here! Some whack job snuck onto the ship!" Peter hollers out, struggling to get up to his feet, glancing around for anything he might grab as a weapon. The man's boots stop in front of his face and a hand places itself on Peter's head- a gesture that's meant to be soothing.
"Calm down, Peter; they won't be able to see me. They can't hear me, either. I'm here for you and you only."
"What- what do you mean? Are you just in my head, too?" Peter demands, right as his breath hitches with sudden realization. That voice.
The man's touch, unlike Meredith's, is warm.
"In a sense. But that hardly means this isn't real. Here, now- all this time I've spent with you while being unable to properly introduce myself. My name is Ego."
When all this prompts is a blank stare out of Peter, 'Ego' smiles warmly, holding out his hands in a placating manner.
"My name is Ego… and I'm your dad, Peter."