Chapter Text
Peter didn't exactly exchange a lot of words with his grandfather the last time he was on Earth. Or like, anytime as a kid. He’s always been more than a little intimidated by the man, hasn’t really thought they had anything in common. He’d hoped, coming back to Earth after thirty years, that they might connect a bit easier.
He hadn’t dared to expect it would be this easy, though.
“The Bowie?” His grandpa throws his head back and laughs as loudly as Peter’s ever heard him. Louder. “How many ships are out there named after Earth singers 'cause of you?”
“Just the three,” Peter says, smiling widely. His grandfather has, so far, taken all of this a lot better than he expected.
“I’m surprised – oh, thank you, dear.” Grandpa cuts himself off when his wife, who had graciously insisted on being called grandma, walks out onto the deck, where it’s long since grown dark, holding two bottles of beer.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter echoes, on his best manners in front of his step-grandmother.
“You’re welcome, dears.” She sets the bottles down on the table and levels a playfully stern look at his grandpa. “I’m heading to bed. Don’t you go staying up too far past your bedtime now.”
“Darla,” Grandpa stage-whispers. “Don’t make me look uncool in front of my galaxy-saving grandson.”
Peter snorts. “It’s totally cool to have a bedtime. Especially when your wife is as beautiful as grandma.”
“You’re almost as charming as your grandfather,” she informs him, patting him on the shoulder before she heads back inside.
“Classic Star-Lord charm,” says Peter, tossing a wink in her direction. He can’t help feeling a pang of sadness as he thinks of Gamora, of her reaction to his attempts at charm on the Orgoscope. To her reaction to all of his attempts at charm, actually. But none of those thoughts sting as much as the memory of her just before she left, that fleetingly genuine, unguarded smile that had seemed to transcend the gulf of time and mortality for just a moment. He hasn’t spoken to her since that day, but he has her code programmed into his comm, and he’s fairly certain it would work, even here on Earth.
Maybe he just doesn’t want to know whether she’d respond if he tried, though. Plus, that would negate his whole purpose in coming here. Which is learning to swim, metaphorically. Or something.
That makes him think of Drax, which gives him a whole other pang of sadness. Turns out it’s harder than he ever would have imagined, being around all of the same people every day for years and then trying to make it on his own.
“Meredith would’ve loved hearin’ you use that name,” his grandfather comments, bringing his mind back to the present. Mostly.
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I chose it.”
Grandpa gives him a watery smile. For a second, Peter worries he’s going to burst into tears, but then he gives himself a shake and gestures to the bottles. “They got beer in space?”
“They got all kinds of it,” Peter says. His grandpa’s face falls a little, so he quickly adds, “I’ve never had a Terran beer before, though.”
That gets his grandpa’s smile back. “Well, then. I missed a lotta your life, but at least I can share a beer with you while ya tell me some more about it, huh?”
Peter hesitates for just a second. He knows, really, that he needs to stop drinking. It hasn’t led anywhere good, and part of this whole learning to swim thing is probably learning not to depend on alcohol to drown his own thoughts. It’s not like he’s actually gone a day without drinking, though. Every time he tries, it just makes him shaky and sick until he gives in and has at least a sip or two out of the flask hidden in his pocket. So, surely he can have a beer or two and be perfectly fine, right? Especially since it appears to be so important to his grandfather.
“Hell yeah, you can!” he says enthusiastically, popping the cap off. He taps the neck of his bottle against his grandpa’s and tosses some back, repressing a moan of relief.
Yeah, this’ll be fine.
Gamora ought to be looking at her account balances. She’s expecting a modest-sized payment for this most recent job – which is fortunate since, in a moment of temporary insanity, she’d caught a fit of altruism from her sister and refused payment for her contribution to the shared efforts against the High Evolutionary. Something about how the knowledge that the Guardians have recently inherited a large number of dependent children had made her feel uncharacteristically guilty about the idea of taking any sort of resources from them. Still, she had agreed to that job infiltrating Orgocorp because she has been chronically short of currency since coming to this godsforsaken timeline. So her priority really should be verifying that she’s been compensated appropriately, then cleaning her weapons and browsing for another job.
Instead she finds herself scrolling aimlessly through the contacts on her holo. And if she keeps pausing on Quill’s code, well, that’s just because it’s new and therefore more likely to catch her subconscious attention. Absolutely not because she has any interest in contacting him. She has no interest in anything at all having to do with him.
He went to Earth because he has family there, says a new message from Nebula, flashing across the top of the screen to announce this latest reply to their conversation.
Okay, so she might be a little curious about him. It’s only natural. He's proven himself to be much less a fool than she originally thought; the way he fought, his quick thinking, the loyalty he displays to those he loves… Plus, she had feared that he’d never be able to see her as anything other than a shadow of the future version of herself that she’ll never be, but after barely more than a day, he’d seemed to grow to like the way she is now, too. Not that she cares what he thinks of her. She’s never cared for anyone’s opinion of her. Obviously.
She taps out another message to Nebula. Does he go there often to see them?
“Your fingers have been glued to your holo lately,” comes Stakar’s voice from the open door. Gamora only just manages to keep herself still, cursing internally; she should have heard him coming, had she not been so distracted by thinking about how she doesn’t care about Quill.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says casually. With conscious effort, she keeps her feet where they are: propped up on the table where her weapons are currently spread out – the weapons she’s definitely going to start cleaning any minute now. It took her months to get used to the Ravagers’ casual way of operating; if she had ever sat in such a casual manner in front of Thanos, he would have picked her up by the neck and squeezed until she never dreamed of such a thing again.
“When you first joined us,” says Stakar, taking a few steps closer, the heavy impacts of his boots echoing off the metal plating that covers the hollow spaces for stolen cargo under the floor, “you would never have let your weapons leave your person, much less sit out on the table while your attention was elsewhere.”
At first it had felt like a necessary survival tactic, figuring out how to fit in like one of the crew. She had studied their habits and mannerisms as if she was on an assignment for Thanos, as if keeping up a cover was the only way to stay safe or be victorious. Later, it had become an act of rebellion: a cleansing of all the meticulous control she had learned to live with under Thanos. And now…Well, she isn’t sure she can say that it’s a genuine part of her, because she is still…not entirely certain where any part of her identity begins or ends, aside from the various niches others have encouraged her to inhabit. But it certainly feels more natural. She no longer feels like she has to monitor her behavior all the time, or like she is about to be discovered as an imposter and punished.
Still, there are some things she is unprepared to share openly. “Some things are more important than cleaning my weapons. Such as making sure I got paid what I’m due.”
“It seems odd that you have been talking to your sister for two weeks about that,” Stakar says knowingly, “when you elected not to take the payment from her.”
Gamora stiffens. “I told you, I will find a way to pay you the portion of it that I promised for your initial aid –”
Stakar waves his hand dismissively. “And I told you, you saved a bunch of kids and left the money for their care. We are calling it even.”
She purses her lips, studying him. She hasn’t known him to lie outside the context of completing a job, but life has taught her to be wary. “The Ravagers are much softer than I previously believed.”
He laughs and levels her with another one of those knowing looks. “I could say the same about the daughters of Thanos. Quite an uptick in transmissions between the two o’ you.”
“Have you been going through my records?” she asks, bristling.
“You use the ship’s comms when you call her,” he points out, immediately making her feel foolish. Obviously. She should never have called her. Wanting to hear her sister’s voice is no excuse.
“It’s good to keep in touch with family. All your family,” he adds, in far too pointed a manner for her liking.
“I have the Ravagers,” she says immediately. “I don't need more than that.”
Stakar shakes his head. “You don’t have to choose, you know?”
“So yeah,” says Peter, downing the rest of his beer and reaching for the bottle opener again. They’ve got a twelve pack on the table between them now, and he’s just getting started on his third. Or is it fourth? Hard to keep track while recounting his life’s story. Or many stories. Definitely all the coolest stories that he definitely wants his grandpa to know. “That’s how Star-Lord became a legendary outlaw.”
His grandpa is silent for a long moment before clearing his throat and taking a long swallow of his own beer. “Well. Ain’t that somethin’.”
Only then does it occur to Peter that he’s just spent at least a dozen minutes detailing all of the people he’s swindled and the shit he’s stolen. Plus several of the women he…well, seduced is such a crass way of putting it and definitely not the language he’s chosen, but probably what his grandpa heard. It also occurs to him, rather belatedly, that his grandfather might not actually appreciate the knowledge that Peter has been using the nickname his daughter bestowed on him to commit criminal acts. He chokes a bit on his latest swig of beer before he manages to speak again. “But! But that was just the beginning. There’s totally way more to the story.”
“I did figure that,” his says with a small laugh. “Seemed like a big jump from outlaw to galaxy-saving superhero. Unless you followed the example of that Harrison Ford in Star Wars, that guy your mother always liked so much —“
“Han Solo!” Peter exclaims, nearly knocking over his drink in his excitement. “I am totally Han Solo! I even have a furry sidekick!” His smile falters slightly, missing Rocket, but he takes a long swig of beer to hide it.
“The one you just got back from saving?” His grandpa asks, clearly having trouble following.
Peter nods, heart tightening again as he remembers how close they came to not succeeding. “My best friend. Though when we met, he was trying to capture me for a bounty on my head! Actually, that’s the beginning of the story of how I saved the galaxy the first time. I can tell you tomorrow, though, if it’s too far past your bedtime.”
Grandpa glares playfully, making them both laugh. “You kiddin’ me, Pete? I got all night.”
Gamora has never
had choices. Not really – Not in any sort of way that matters. She has never really had a family, either, aside from the way Thanos had twisted that word. At least, not one that she can remember.
And that’s the ironic thing, isn’t it? She has wondered, for years now, about the love that was lost on her homeworld. Wished that there was a way to regain it somehow, or if not that then at least to know what it might have been, had Thanos never –
But now there is another family that she doesn’t remember. And though she remains uncertain how she feels about that, she cannot quite shake curiosity about them.
Still, the Ravagers have been all she has had or needed for the past two years, and there certainly is a safe familiarity about them. At least, until now. She is used to Stakar being perceptive, but he doesn’t usually ask these sorts of personal questions. None of the crew are much for emotions or related thoughts, which has always been something she’s appreciated about them.
“Choose what?” she asks, keeping her voice carefully even. “My next job? Pretty sure I do have to make a decision there.”
Stakar plops down onto the chair next to hers; he’s not laughing or even smiling that widely, but he looks distinctly amused. “Choose between two worlds. The Ravagers are spread all across the galaxy, after all. You’ll find some anywhere you go. Even Terra, for example.”
She stiffens, fingers tightening around her holo; it’s only years of instinct that stop her from clutching it to her chest. “Why would I ever go to Terra? My only family is my sister, and she is on Knowhere.”
“I’ve met Quill a few times before,” Stakar tells her, ignoring her comment. “The leader of his old crew, Yondu Udonta, was like family to me. There was a long time there where I didn’t see him, until it was too late.”
“Why?” Gamora asks, curious despite herself.
Stakar shakes his head. “That is a story for another time. One for Quill to tell you himself, maybe.”
She scoffs. “Are you running a matchmaking service now?”
This time, he does laugh out loud. “You remind me of Yondu in some ways, Gamora. Real hard exterior. Pushin’ people away, hiding from people who care about you. Stubborn bastards.”
“I never met Yondu,” she deflects. “And I have no interest in Peter Quinn.” It sounds unconvincing even to her ears. She has known his name all along, of course. Her sister made certain of that, purely against her will. She had only ever used the incorrect one to make her disinterest perfectly clear to both of them, to communicate the absolute inevitability of her disappointing them before they had an opportunity to raise their hopes too much. But now…Now it just sounds forced and insincere.
Stakar’s look tells her that it’s such a bad bluff, he won’t even be dignifying it enough to call it. “You know what else I didn’t realize about Yondu until it was too late? He was real lonely, even while he claimed not to need anyone but himself and his crew. See, the Ravagers didn’t used to operate together the way we do now. Took Yondu dyin’ to bring the United to the United Ravagers.”
“How could I be lonely?” asks Gamora. “Not like I ever have any privacy around all of you.”
This is the first time he’s gone back in thirty years, Nebula’s message flashes on screen, because of course her sister would have this sort of exact wrong timing. I think you inspired him to do it.
Well, that is entirely unfair. If she were superstitious, Gamora might think that the universe is conspiring against her.
She swipes her finger over the screen, dismissing the notification quickly. She’s certain that Stakar hasn’t had time to read it, and equally certain that he had time to see who it was from.
He raises a single brow at her, but she keeps her face as neutral as possible. “Gamora, Gamora, Gamora. You and I both know that you can be lonely in a ship full o’ people.”
Peter has long since lost count of how many beers he’s had, but he knows he’s outpaced his grandpa by quite a few. But hey, he’s a lot younger than him. It would probably be concerning if his grandpa was matching his pace here.
“You talk about this Gamora like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to the galaxy,” Grandpa says, with a knowing smile.
Peter practically melts, while at the same time trying not to cry. Damn, he really needs more booze. He chugs the remainder of his current bottle, belches, and says: “Oh, Grandpa, you have no idea. She’s so…strong, you know? So brave.” He lets out a heavy, dreamy sigh. “So pretty.”
“Am I gonna be able to meet this girl?” his grandpa asks.
Immediately, Peter reaches for another beer. He absolutely cannot tell the full story. At least not now. He’d need like twelve twelve-packs to be ready for that. “Probably not, uh… Something happened during the, um… Well, on Terra – Earth – you call it the Blip, apparently. So she doesn’t remember me. Or, well, okay, she does now, cause we met again just a few weeks ago. But she doesn’t remember any of the time we spent together before.”
Grandpa’s face falls noticeably at that, which is admittedly gratifying in a way. Peter’s gotten used to Nebula’s way of coping with her sister’s…situation…which has mostly been to dismiss anything resembling genuine emotion with a statement about how there is nothing to grieve since she isn’t dead. Which, in hindsight, makes a whole lot more sense with the knowledge that she’s been talking to Gamora this entire time. So it’s nice to have sympathy from someone new and unrelated to all the other complicated pieces of the situation.
But then it occurs to him that his grandpa has lost his daughter, his first wife, and – well, his grandson, until now. And that’s just the people he knows about. Probably he ought not to be pleased about coming back here and bringing more pain into his grandpa’s life. He takes another long swig of beer and pastes on a totally convincing smile. “It’s okay though! I mean, it’s not like she’s dead or anything. We can totally–”
“Might not have anything to do with aliens or space,” Grandpa interrupts, “but I understand how painful it can be to have someone you love forget you.”
Peter swallows with effort, thinking about how his mother went through periods of confusion before her death, how sometimes she wouldn’t recognize anyone around her. But he’s already made far too many assumptions about his Terran family. “You do?”
His grandpa nods, taking another drink of his own beer. “Before your grandmother died, her memory went. Some o’ the hardest years of my life.”
“Grandpa,” Peter whispers, chest aching. Already, he’s had so much more connection, so much more in common, with his grandfather than he ever expected, and now this? It’s not the kind of connection he would ever wish on anyone, but knowing that they have it… “And she didn’t remember you?”
“It was on and off at the beginning,” Grandpa says, picking at the label of his mostly empty beer bottle. “She’d recognize me sometimes. Other times not. Then it was all not. She never remembered me as her husband again but then she started to remember me as the fella who brought her breakfast. Or the fella who read to her. Or who took her for walks when it was nice out.”
Peter ducks his head as he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. He really needs more beer. They’re down to the last one in the pack, which he grabs and pops open, taking a swig before he can find his voice again. “How did you deal with that?”
“It was hard,” his grandpa admits, voice shaking. “I missed being who I used to be to her. Her husband. But then I started to appreciate what I was to her. So maybe I was just the guy that read her stories. So what? That guy made her smile. That’s all I could really ask for.”
Peter manages a tremulous smile, reaching out to pat his grandfather’s hand over the table, thinking of how goddamn brave he must have been. Braver than him.
Then he chugs the rest of his beer. “You got anything stronger?”
“I’m not lonely,” Gamora says dismissively. “I am perfectly content here.”
And, until a few days ago, she would have believed herself without question. In truth, she’s still not sure that lonely really encompasses what she’s feeling. She is more comfortable with this crew than she has ever been in her life, both physically and emotionally. She’s happy with her life as it is, which is more than she has ever been able to say, and what she has repeatedly told her sister anytime Nebula has tried to push her to do or be more.
But now…Well, she still isn’t unhappy. But she isn’t exactly perfectly content, either. She has to admit that there was something different about working with the Guardians. About working with Quill. A familiarity and a spark that had made it thrilling in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible. A feeling she would very much like to have again, dangerous as that might feel to admit.
“You know,” says Stakar, “I would have expected a daughter of Thanos to be a better liar.”
“And I would have expected Ravagers to smell worse,” she returns dryly. “Oh, wait.” She puts on her most disinterested expression as she picks her holo up again and responds to Nebula’s message, just to show that she doesn’t need to hide anything.
What does that have to do with me?
She looks up in time to see Stakar’s smirk. “Somethin’ else about the Ravagers you oughta know: once a Ravager, always a Ravager. Just ‘cause you might go away for a while, doesn’t mean you can’t come back whenever you want. Families are like that.”
His eyes flick to her holo, then back to hers. Gamora forces herself not to follow his gaze, but it’s a lot harder than it should be.
“Orange juice and vodka?” Peter asks, eyeing the cup his grandpa sets down in front of him. They’ve moved into the kitchen now for something stronger, and this was the first thing Grandpa suggested.
“Oh, yeah,” his grandpa says. He pours himself a smaller measure than Peter’s got, hands trembling as he holds the bottles. It’s something Peter’s trying very hard not to notice. “I caught your mom sneakin’ these more than once in her youth.”
Peter’s jaw drops. “What? No way! Really?”
Grandpa chuckles, an edge of nostalgia coloring his voice. “Oh, she was a hellion as a teenager. I bet you had that in common.”
“Yeah,” Peter says softly, thinking of how much Yondu would have agreed with that assessment. He takes a large gulp of his drink, hardly even tasting it as he downs half in one go.
Thinking of Yondu inevitably makes him think of Groot, which inevitably makes him think of that awful time when he had been both a rebellious teenager and grieving the loss of Gamora. Which makes him down most of the rest of his drink in a second gulp.
“Whoa!” His grandpa holds out a hand, palm forward in what Peter knows as the universal gesture for Stop. At least, he thinks. His head is starting to feel…slightly floaty. Probably mostly because it’s late, and maybe a bit from the alcohol. “This stuff’s real strong! Space liquor must be a whole lot stronger than the Terran stuff, judgin’ by how much you’ve already had.” He sounds vaguely impressed, but maybe also concerned.
Peter scratches the back of his neck, guilt trying to claw its way up through his chest. Or maybe that’s just indigestion. “Depends where it’s from, I guess? Like, Asgardian mead, man, don’t ever go near that stuff. Tried some once for the hell of it, pretty sure I lost, like, three days and a whole lotta brain cells. Xandarian beer’s more like this, though. Pretty mild. So if you ever decide you wanna try space booze, that’s probably your best bet.”
“I will sure make note of that,” Grandpa says, still eyeing him. Peter considers this from his point of voice: here he is, seeing his grandson for the first time in thirty years, and the first thing he does is drink like eight beers and chug a screwdriver, as he’d called this thing.
“Don’t worry,” he says, making himself set the drink down to demonstrate that he can. “I’ve got a major tolerance after all that space booze, and spending most of my formative years as a Ravager. All this is nothin’ to me.”
Grandpa nods, shoulders loosening slightly. Peter nearly lets out a sigh of relief; the last thing he wants to do is give his grandfather reason to worry about him. “Be that as it may, it is getting well past my bedtime. Let me show you to the guest room?”
“Oh, yeah, of course!” Peter says quickly. As much as he might not be tired, his grandpa clearly is, and he can totally stop drinking whenever he wants to. He only throws back the last of the drink because it would be a waste to leave it behind. “Lead the way.”
“Did you come here for a reason?” Gamora asks, when the silence has stretched into discomfort again. Or…more discomfort than she cares to tolerate. It never stopped being uncomfortable, really. Which is unfortunate, given how that conflicts with the convenient belief that being around this crew is easy, safe. Certainly in relation to her sister and the other Guardians. Isn’t it? “A reason other than trying to give me life lessons, I mean.”
Stakar laughs, a genuine sound, despite everything. Despite all of the ways she’s challenged and dismissed him. Despite the fact that she’s lied, and he knows it. “No, I think I’ve made my point. And I think you heard me, no matter whether you’re ready to admit it.” He stays only a moment longer, allowing his words to hang in the air with that gravity he always seems to exert – so different from Thanos’ authority, and yet she cannot deny she’s affected by it.
Gamora is still staring after him when her holo lights up with another reply from Nebula, and she jumps. Ask him yourself.
How can I do that when you just said he’s gone to Earth? she responds immediately.
She’s already hit send by the time she realizes how that sounds: that she did not simply say she doesn’t want to ask him, but instead presented an obstacle that she is certain her sister can easily counter.
Predictably, Nebula responds with: I believe there are vehicles capable of spaceflight somewhere around. You might even be able to pilot one, if the controls are simple enough. Before Gamora can even feel properly offended by that dig, another message comes in: The Ravagers aren’t holding you hostage, are they?
That is a dare from her sister if she’s ever heard one, and she’s heard plenty. There’s also the fact that the leader of the United Ravagers just all but told her she can come and go as she pleases, the type of freedom she has decidedly not had before, and is still getting used to.
Her fingers move almost of their own volition, tapping out a message before she’s given it much thought. I wouldn’t even know where to find him on Terra. She knows very well that Nebula will give her the tracer information for his comm, and then she will have no excuse not to do what she wants.
Screw it, she thinks; she is not trapped here. She’s not trapped anywhere anymore. She can do what she wants, go where she wants. And if what she wants right now is to talk to Quill again, then she’ll do that. It’s just curiosity after all.
It has nothing to do with the silver blush that hasn’t left her abdomen since she stood back to back with him on Knowhere.
It isn’t his childhood bedroom, thank gods.
Not that Peter expected it would be – not since he’d first managed to locate his grandpa and realized that he was no longer living in the same house. It would literally be impossible for his childhood bedroom to be here, in a whole other place, and that image makes him laugh. Which is probably mostly the alcohol making everything feel pleasantly fuzzy and light.
He loves that feeling. It’s the best feeling, really. Well, the best feeling that he can hope to have now. He would much rather have a hug from Gamora. Or a kiss from Gamora. Or even just five minutes with Gamora.
All at once, he’s struck by the memory of her poised to get on her ship, standing with her back to his. Of the way he could feel the tension radiating off of her, and…and he thinks the longing, too, though he can’t entirely say what for. Or even if he was reading her correctly.
Because as much as he might know the core of who she is – her honor, her goodness, her kindness – he doesn’t know her. Not in the way that he did before. And it doesn’t matter how much she opens herself up to the possibility, she will never be the person that he lost.
He grabs the pillow from under his head and covers his face with it with a frustrated groan. He is not supposed to be thinking about this; he’s here to reconnect with his grandfather, with his home planet. He just can’t stop missing Gamora. To be fair, he misses his whole Guardians family. He’s tempted to pull out his holo to message the group chat, just to say hi, see what’s up with them, but he’s afraid they’ll know what time it is on Earth and wonder why he’s awake, and he really doesn’t feel like explaining it. Plus, he’s a little drunk, and he feels like Rocket will be able to tell somehow, just through a message.
He tries to close his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but then he sees his best friend dying behind his eyelids, one of many horrible scenes that have been playing over and over in his mind the past couple weeks.
“Dammit,” he mutters, throwing the pillow off his face, kicking the blanket off his body. He needs another drink. Just one more. His grandpa will never notice.