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Earth Year – 1995
Peter gets caught somewhere he shouldn't be and sells a sob story of the poor Terran boy who was abducted by Ravangers and forced into a life of crime. He does not expect his captor to decide the best thing to do for the poor child was to take him back home.
Home, as in Terra.
Yondu is gonna kill him.
XXX
“But...but Terra is a restricted planet,” Peter tries to reason. The, Peter's pretty sure it's a male of the species, man's face just creases into something that probably should be reassuring, but really it just emphasizes the tusks.
“Do not fear,” a hand that spans the entire width of Peter's back comes down on his shoulder. He tries not to wince. “If we should run into a Nova patrol, I will simply explain the circumstances.”
Peter never thought he'd ever have the occasion to wish for a Nova patrol, but as his once mark turned captor heads towards the little cockpit in the front of the ship Peter really wouldn't mind seeing those assholes pop up.
He doesn't have his blaster and though he's not weaponless (Kraglin would gut him if he ever had less than three blades on him at all times) the other guy is easily four times his size and the only reason Peter isn't a smear on the wall right now is because the guy bought the whole poor Terran boy story.
Attacking him isn't an option.
But neither is getting stuck on Terra.
He tries to twist his face into the most pitiful expression he can make before stepping up in sightline of the pilot's chair, “You wouldn't happen to have any food on board, would ya?” He blinks his eyes wide, this isn't his first rodeo. “It's just, they only let me eat after a job.”
And a small part of him (the voice sounds like his mother) is feeling guilty at the look of sympathy he's getting but he squashes it flat.
“Of course dear, check out the gally there might be something compatible for Terrans.”
Peter shoots him grateful smile and slinks out of the cockpit and into the rest of the ship. Time for him to go scavenging. Most days he's not exactly happy being the scrawny, weak Terran in a galaxy full of species that could sit on him and squash him, but some days it pays to be seen as harmless.
XXX
He's only got about half a plan hobbled together when 'Just call me Olgo,' calls him back to the cockpit. The pockets of Peter's coat are heavy with things he's snatched from around the M-ship but he needs more time.
He's not going to get it.
He can't help staring out the viewscreens at the ball of green and blue floating out in front of them. It's been nearly seven years since he's seen Earth and last time he was in the quadrant he was speeding away from the planet and not in a position to watch.
It's beautiful that small voice from earlier says, and Peter wants to push it away, deny that Earth, that Terra has anything he would want.
Olgo was staring at him expectantly and Peter realized he missed a question. The little blue and green ball was getting bigger and bigger.“I'm sorry, what?”
“Where would you like me to drop you off, son?”
Contraxia, Knowhere, hell I'll even take Xander is was he doesn't say.
They're close enough Peter can pick out landmasses and he dregs up elementary geography and tries to find North America. If he's getting stuck on this damn planet, he'd at least like to get stuck in the United States.
“There.” He settles on, “Ya see where the blue and green meet? We gotta avoid people though.” Because landing a ship in the middle of a crowd would probably get him back off planet… just long enough to stand before the General Galactic Council and explain himself.
Peter makes a face, because that might actually be preferable than explaining to Yondu just what went so sideways on this job.
XXX
Peter learns how to pickpocket when he's eight and while nowadays he's pulling bigger jobs and picking pockets is reserved mostly just for fun, he's glad he's kept in practice.
It's easy enough to find marks in the little coastal tourist town he finds himself in after Olgo cheerfully kicks him off the ship and while it's not exactly a vacation, three months in and he's not going hungry and the hotel rooms he's paying with stolen credit cards (Terrans and their shitty security on their electronic funds) are practically palatial when he compares it to his bunk on the Eclector.
He tries real hard not to think of the Milano and where he left her docked.
He's sitting on the bed in his latest hotel, bits and pieces spread out in front of him as he turns the thing he's been working on since he set foot back on his homeworld. It's not pretty, but Peter's pretty sure the transponder will get a message to the Eclector, provided they're actually looking for him.
His stomach growls loudly, reminding him he hasn't eaten since breakfast. He sweeps all the odds and ends off the bedspread into the open dufflebag on the floor, his Ravanger leathers packed neatly inside. He leans down to settle the transponder down on top before zipping the whole thing shut and climbing off the bed.
He decides he'll grab something to eat and then find somewhere quiet and secluded to send the message out. Hopefully the Eclector isn't too far away, actually listening, and Yondu's willing to come get his ass.
What could go wrong?
Well considering his luck…
XXX
“Sir? He's ready for you.”
Coulson looks up from the file he's reading, nods at the officer and stands from the hard plastic chair he's been sitting in for about half an hour. He smooths the non existent wrinkles from his suit before following the man down a starkly lit hallway and into a glass walled room.
The only occupant of the room is slouched in a chair, wrists attached to the metal table in front of him with handcuffs and in an eye searing orange jumpsuit. The man looks up as Coulson enters the room and one side of his face is a mess of purple and red, stitches above his eye.
Boy, Coulson corrects in his head, he can't believe anyone took one look at this kid and thought he was over eighteen.
There's a wary intelligence in the kid's eyes as Coulson takes his seat across from him, no matter how much he's trying to project indifference. He avoids looking at the file Coulson sets between them on the table.
“Good morning, Mr. Quill.”
The kid doesn't flinch but his eyes narrow just a little, “Think you got the wrong guy.”
Coulson settles his hands on the table and smiles blandly. “Did you know that a few years ago a program was launched to help parents in the event their child went missing? They collected data on the child and created a database that could help law enforcement locate missing and exploited children. One such data point was fingerprints.” He pauses a second to let that sink in. “And when Peter Quill went missing seven years ago, his relatives submitted a DNA sample as well.”
The kid's sitting up straight now, his jaw tight, and Coulson backs off a little, because you don't corner something that's likely to bite, “Of course the fingerprints could be wrong and a DNA sample takes a few weeks to get results on. Maybe you are who you say you are, Jason Obfonteri, born July 20th 1975.”
He tilts his head a bit, “But since you are looking at three counts of assault with a deadly weapon, I'd think you'd rather be Peter Quill, born July 20th 1980.”
“They jumped me!” The kid's all righteous indignation and the chains clink against the table as he reflexively tries to cross his arms. “It was self defense.”
Considering Coulson's pretty sure the DA's just waiting to be able to up at least one of the charges to manslaughter, he just hums. “Of course, even a minor can be charged as an adult in certain circumstances.” Quill glares at him, getting the hint, and Coulson continues with, “Unless of course, you make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” And there's a look on the boy's face Coulson recognizes, one that says he's used to doing what needs done to survive, and it makes Coulson want to ask about the seven years Quill's been missing. But he knows he'd only get lies at this point.
Instead he says, “I work for the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate.”
Quill blinks a few times before, “Oookay. Am I supposed to know who that is?”
Coulson smiles, “No, Mr. Quill, you are not.” He switches tracks without skipping a beat, “How many languages do you speak?”
“Just English.” Quill shrugs.
And Coulson pauses, because he's got surveillance tapes that prove otherwise. He slips effortlessly into Spanish, “Really, because you seem to take what that guard said to heart, which would be odd if you couldn't understand what he was saying.”
“An asshole's an asshole in any language.” Quill replies off hand before freezing.
Coulson's raises an eyebrow but keeps going like he didn't just catch the kid in a lie, “How's your Russian?” He tries not to wince at his accent.
Quill leans on his elbows and just looks at him for a minute before coming to some kind of decision and saying, still in slightly accented English, “Bout as good as my Spanish. I didn't lie,” Quill points out, “I can't speak Spanish or Russian or Chinese or whatever else you want to throw at me.”
“Alright,” because Coulson's expected weird ever since his boss handed him a file and told him to get on a plane to check this kid out. “Is there any other language you do speak?”
He's getting that considering look again, “This is like a job interview, isn't it?” Coulson raises a hand and waggles it back and forth, “Well, I have'ta concentrate but...”
And then the kid starts talking in a language Coulson's never heard, the conostants clicky and short with flat vowels. When Quill stops speaking Coulson asks, “What was that?”
Quill just smirks at him, “Hire me and I'll tell you.”
XXX
Coulson spends the rest of the day making calls and getting things in motion to get Quill into SHIELD custody. He also tries to dig up what the kid's been up to for the last seven years but it's a complete blank.
He'd watched the tapes, the one outside the bar and the dash cam of the arresting officer and it's clear the kid's been taught how to fight, but is smart enough to go quietly when he knows he's been caught. He's only fifteen, but Coulson feels that just means he's had less time to learn bad habits. And when he'd gone through the dufflebag Quill had on him when he'd been arrested, that just made things more interesting.
The ringing phone cuts through his sleep and he slants a look a the clock before reaching across the hotel bed and picking the phone up. He's less surprised than he should be at the news coming through the line.
“Did he take his things?” Is the only thing he asks and he hangs up as soon as he get the confirmation, already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
XXX
Its the Warbird that touches down in front of Peter in a marshy field just outside of town. He kinda wishes Yondu had foisted fetching Quill duty off to someone else, but the fact that he's here so quickly means the man had already been in the area.
Which means the good captain has probably paid a visit to 'Just call me Olgo' to see what happened to his favorite thief. Peter really can't decide how he feels about that.
The hatch of the Warbird isn't even fully down before Yondu is striding down it, “Give me one good reason not to leave your ass on this damn rock to rot!”
Peter just holds up a gem the size of a golfball, the purple and silver glinting in the lights of the ship. Yondu's expression shifts out of homicidal and into thoughtful. “He was using it to crack JuJu nuts.” Peter says flatly. “Doubt he had any idea what he had, beyond it was pretty.” He takes a gamble and tosses the gem at Yondu. It's a toss up really whether the man will take it as an act of loyalty or an act of stupidity.
Since the man came all the way back to Terra for him, Peter thinks he probably doesn't need the gem to buy his way back on the ship.
Yondu holds the gem up to the light and tilts it, “Sure is pretty.” he cuts a look back at Peter, “Unlike your face, boy. What the hell happened?”
Peter grimaces, but as he opens his mouth to spin some story another voice cuts through the dark.
“If you didn't want the job, you could have just said no.”
He hears the whistle even as he's opening his mouth, “NO! Wait!”
XXX
There is a floating, glowing, arrow hovering just centimeters from his skin, the point eerily dead center between his eyes.
That's new, Coulson thinks, but lets the gun that was in his hand drop to the ground so he can hold both up and empty in the universal sign of please don't kill me. Quill and the other man are backlit from the lights of the space ship and after Coulson gets over the brief moment of thinking he's actually going to die, he tries to listen to the half of the conversation he can understand.
“Because people will look for him if he disappears, he's like some super secret agent man dude!”
The blue man, who still hasn't moved the arrow, asks a question in a voice that makes it clear he's gotten used to asking ridiculous questions.
Quill screws up his face a little before answering, “Like Nova officers, 'cept they can like make people disappear and stuff.” Coulson stands steady under the considering look before Quill adds quietly, “He knows who I am.”
And Coulson wishes he still had the gun because Blue snarls something before turning to Quill and grabbing the kid by the front of his jacket and shaking him and yelling. It takes a second, but Coulson realizes even though the kid's got his face scrunched up from the screaming in his face, he's not cowering.
“I got arrested, okay!”
That gets Blue to stop, one hand going up to tilt the kid's face to get a better look at the bruising, before Coulson's the center of his attention again. The question is quiet, but even though Coulson can't understand him, he can feel the tightly wound rage all the same.
And he's pretty sure it's the second time in less than fifteen minutes that the kid's saved his life when he says, “Nah, some…” there's a word Coulson doesn't recognize, “...jumped me outside a bar. That guy's been pretty cool, for a ...” And again another word with too sharp consonants.
Coulson finally finds his voice, “I just wanted to offer the kid a job.”
The arrow backs up a bit and Blue smirks at him. Coulson doesn't need to understand him to know he's saying the kid's already got a job and he just smiles, “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.” He slowly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card, “If you're ever back on planet...”
Quill slants a look at Blue but steps up to grab the card from Coulson's fingers with a smile. “Not sure you can afford me.”
Blue snorts and says something that gets Quill to duck his head and grin sheepishly, “Speaking of, you didn't happen to pick up my ship, did you?”
There's a sharp whistle and the arrow flies back to Blue and settles in a holster while the man pinches the bridge of his nose and grumbles.
Quill rolls his eyes and heads back towards the ship, “S'not like I left it there on purpose.” He waves at Coulson, “Thanks again, man.”
Couslon shares a speaking look with Blue, even as the man cuffs Quill on the back of the head as he passes him and heads into the ship. Blue nods once before turning on his heel and heading back up the ramp.
Coulson watches as the ship takes off and disappears into the night sky.
This is going to be fun to explain to his superiors.
XXX
Earth Year – 2017
Peter Quill, Star-Lord, Ravanger, Guardian of the Galaxy, steps off his ship and looks around at the various weapons pointed his way (is that a freaking robot?) and holds up an old and battered card.
“Sooo, I got a job offer a few years ago, wondering if it still stands?”