Three Months is a Long-ass Time
I made a post a little while ago about how Father and Son was the first thing on the Zune when Peter picked it up, meaning that was probably the last song Yondu listened to before everything went to shit. Here’s the accompanying fic.
When Yondu first saw the gonk, he thought that’s my boy.
But it wasn’t long - scarcely a minute, in fact - before his broad grin faded. It shrunk, wizening into a downturned line as Yondu realized not only that Quill had cost his faction their reputation, their prize, and their money, but also that the goofy doll in the containment sphere was the closest he was getting to a goodbye.
Quill would be back though. So Yondu told himself as he strode trough the market, eyes peeled for Terran junk. There were usually a few pieces here or there. Salvage, jetsom, loot - he didn’t ask cause he didn’t care. He just wanted something for when the prodigal son returned.
Kraglin remained skeptical. That was okay. Kraglin was a pessimist, and if he was that determined to be miserable, far be it from Yondu’s place to stop him.
But for him? If there was a chance he could entice Quill back, even if it meant leaving a breadcrumb trail of Terran music leading back to the Eclector, Yondu was willing to give it a shot.
He’d told his men it was in their best interests to let the Grauniads of the Galaxy go. It was tempting to hunt Quill down under the guise of vengeance, but there were those among their number who shot first and dealt with consequences later. A lot more than there used to be. They’d all lost friends and comrades in the battle of Xandar, and the absence of a paycheck meant that those sores were still smarting.
No, if Quill was gonna return to the Ravager fold, it had to be of his own accord.
Yondu found the Zune amid a clutter of Terran crap: black plastic pistols that the seller informed him shot hot air rather than plasma, and not even at scalding temperatures; microwaving machines too small to fit an interrogation victim inside; writing implements with long dried-up ink that could be used to gouge out eyes in an emergency. Really, it was a wonder the whole damn species hadn’t gone extinct.
He picked it up, turning it over. It was slimmer than Quill’s Walkthing, more compact. The casing was smooth against the rough of his palms.
“This come with music?” he asked. The seller nodded, and bit the chits before counting them into her purse.
“You gonna listen to that?”
That was Kraglin, jogging to catch up as they tramped back to ship. Yondu spared him an eye roll. He held onto the Zune. It was too big for his inner pockets, which were designed only for unit chits, and he knew this port well enough to expect at least half the contents of his outer ones to be missing by the time he reached the gang ramp, plus another quarter gone while he climbed it.
“Naw. I’m gonna cook it for dinner.”
“I don’t think yer s’pposed to eat Terran batteries, sir…”
Kraglin trailed off. Yondu shook his head at him, and took the lead.