Work Text:
“You’re wearing… that?” Kraglin tries to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Yondu grins at him unperturbed.
“Yup.”
Kraglin tries to picture Yondu standing in the middle of his family’s nondescript grey house squatting in its nondescript grey field in all his chaotic explosion of battered up bare blue chest and blood-red tattered leather and clinking gold piercings trailing down the edges of both pointed ears.
His last pair of socks manfully resists being shoved into its designated duffle corner. Kraglin coaxes it in a little more forcefully.
“Well, it’s colder than you’re thinking. Pack an extra shirt?”
It hadn’t exactly been Kraglin’s idea, to bring Yondu home. The unexpected chunk of liberty had sent most of the crew scattering by M-ship to the bot brothels and bars of nearby planets, after the Eclector had been pummeled nearly to pieces during their last jaunt through Kree space. As much as Yondu had griped about it, the joint consensus of both the Eclector engineers and the ones Stakar had generously lent them was that repairs would take at least a fortnight.
That was a good chunk of time. Easily enough time to pop over and back again before he was missed, Kraglin had checked the nav charts. And it had been so long since he’d done more than send off a quick vid message to his parents on Mira.
“Whatcha looking up there, Krags?”
Kraglin starts as hot sour breath husks against his ear, and a pointy chin jabbing into the ball of his shoulder.
“Cap’n,” Kraglin says, mindful of over-curious ears. There’s only a handful of bridge crew left, the others already shot off to make the most out of their unexpected liberty, but still. Crew ain’t stupid enough to think all those nights Kraglin spends in Yondu’s rooms are ‘planning meetings’ no matter what Yondu says, but it won’t do to flaunt the potential for favoritism in their faces.
“Just checking something on the charts,” Kraglin taps the button to send the flight plan to his M-ship, then closes the view screen. “Everything should be good here, ‘bout ready to pack it up.”
Yondu straightens up, then turns so he can sprawl himself in the seat next to Kraglin.
“So I was thinking, there’s a pretty little jungle planet half a klick away, all deserted and private-like,” he says with a dirty grin
Kraglin winces. Shit. Of course Yondu had thought up plans for them already.
“Um,” Kraglin fidgets with the dash. “Actually, there’s something I need t’do.”
Kraglin drives. Yondu can pilot competently enough, but if there’s anyone else to pawn the job onto he will.
“Know you’re a Ravager, do they?” Yondu chomps down on his mouth full of beasties, orange guts dripping down to his chest. He scrubs a hand across his mouth to wipe away the worst of it, then shovels another mouthful in.
“Sort of,” Kraglin scratches the back of his scalp, tugs at the tight collar of his second-best jumpsuit. “They know I work on a ship, and what I get up to ain’t strictly legal. And they know I’m bringing someone with me.”
“You wanting me t’keep schtum on what we get up to? Cause I won’t,” Yondu grumbles around his mouthful.
“Naw,” Kraglin turns, quirks his lip up in a grin, “Wouldn’t ask you to.”
The wind scuttles through the rusted arches of the station, rain dripping steady from the parapets. A man stands silhouetted by the dying red light, all bushy lowered eyebrows and lanky rope-muscled limbs. Kraglin resists the urge to reach for Yondu, squeeze his arm, rest a palm on the small of his back.
“Aw, that your daddy?” Yondu smirks, slings his duffle over one shoulder. Kraglin gives him a look as he steps off the dented edge of the light rail, but Yondu just adds, “Figures he’d be a skinny fucker, suppose you had to get it from somewhere.”
Kraglin determinedly ignores him. The platform is covered in limp browning leaves and detritus, and they paste themselves to his boots as he walks. His father’s face doesn’t change when he see him, but his shoulders relax down the smallest bit.
“Son,” Mik reaches out with two broad hands to pull Kraglin stumbling closer. He curls his arms around Kraglin, squeezing him tight enough he can’t breath for one long moment before letting him go.
“Dad,” Kraglin swallows, swipes his hand across his mouth. “Missed you.”
Mik shoves his hands in his pockets as he mumble-grunts something incomprehensible under his breath. Kraglin shifts a little, closer to Yondu.
“Not that staring at each other ain’t fun n all,” Yondu lets his bag drop, leans an arm on Kraglin nearly sending him tipping to the side. “But Krags here told me there’s an actual house an’ all around here somewhere.”
Kraglin turns his head, then deliberately moves backward. He keeps his face straight as Yondu flails and gives him a filthy look.
Mik squints, then says gruffs out, "I brought the hovercar."
"Well ain't that a treat," Yondu says brightly, and he slings his luggage carelessly back over one shoulder. “S’ cold as balls out here.”
"Mom," Kraglin says helplessly, something aching and bitter and fiercely loving squeezing down on his lungs. Jemma grins at him, a little half one like there's something waiting to shout gotcha if she looks too happy. Her perfume is papery sweet as he buries his head in her shoulder, wraps in gently in his arms.
Her bones stick into him, and wishes again that they'd take any of the things he's tried to offer them. He may only just have squeaked his way into senior crew, but he still brings in enough that a little off the top wouldn't be missed. It's not like he really has all that much need to spend his money anyways.
"So this is your…?” Mik eyes Yondu grumpily as he shuffles food from the kitchen to the rickety table that doubles as dining surface and mechanical workbench. Kraglin squeezes his eyes shut, lets go.
"Um, this here is..." Kraglin turns to see Yondu curiously picking up the various knickknacks that line the walls. He’s squinting greedily at one particularly lovely rose crystal-encrusted swoop of a shell as he rubs his thumb along the edge.
“Yondu Udonta,” Yondu voice is cheerful as he adds casually, “I’m the one fucking your son.”
Kraglin flushes abruptly hotter than the noon sun on stone.
“Yondu,” he squeaks, and clears his throat as he tries desperately to think of the fastest distraction he can manufacture.
Maybe he can trip dramatically over a chair.
“What?” Yondu picks up the trinket, turning it upside down and shaking it. “Hey, where’s this little bugger from, I want one t’stick on my control console.“
“Um,” Jemma’s face is still carefully blank, “That one’s local. Made from Miran shells.”
“Yep, those shells are great, and dinner also looks great,” Kraglin shoves himself into the closest chair. Maybe if they can start eating, everyone will be too busy enjoying the food to notice Kraglin’s mouth twitching as he tries desperately not to either die of embarrassment at the look on his parents' faces, or snicker out loud at Yondu’s hijinks. It may be entertaining, but unfortunately these are people Kraglin still has to talk to after it all and he is not in the mood to be lectured about his choice in bed partners.
His parents set themselves carefully into their chairs, and Yondu sprawls into the one next to Kraglin. The food is simple, plain, but none of it is rehydrated or unidentifiable or smelling of happily flourishing mold, so Kraglin piles his plate high.
“Have as much as you need, dear,” Jemma purses her lips. “Still skinny as a shin bone, but then I imagine you don’t eat very well, out there in space.” She says it like it’s a dirty word, and Kraglin resist the urge to clonk his face against the table.
“Hey,” Yondu’s voice is full of wounded affront. Kraglin slides his hand over to squeeze Yondu’s knee warningly, for what little good it will do. “We steal plenty enough of the good ration packs t'go round, sometimes even some of those greens that go smelly real fast.”
His mother doesn’t look reassured.
The rest of dinner doesn’t get any better. Kraglin can’t decide whether the most entertaining part is when Yondu reaches over Kraglin to cheerfully tear off a leg of the roast bird as his mother watches frozen with the knife, or the expression on his father’s face when Yondu goes into lovingly bloody detail about how Kraglin had gutted that Kree mercenary throat to scrote in their last skirmish .
No. Actually, the best part is when Jemma makes the mistake of asking Yondu how he and Kraglin first got together and Kraglin hadn’t been able to head Yondu off with a safer topic of conversation.
Kraglin is pretty sure his mother’s sexual vocabulary has expanded rather more than anyone at the table had ever wanted.
Thankfully, everyone’s plates are finally empty and Kraglin can make their excuses so they can escape to the relative peace of the guest room.
“‘Excuse me,” Yondu lets out a cheerful burp as he stands, “Need t’piss.”
Kraglin silently points him towards the bathroom, and Yondu ambles off. Both parents watch him go, and then turn back to stare at Kraglin
“Son, is he pressuring you into something?” Jemma’s worried stare grates, as much as Kraglin knows she means it well. “You deserve a nice man, someone who won’t treat you like that.”
“Mom–“ Kraglin says helplessly. His father reaches out to drop his work-calloused hand on his, adds, “I know that working the land here wasn’t ever what you wanted, but you could still join the Nova Corps, really make something of yourself.”
Kraglin stares back, and decides he’ll save the news about the multiple bounties on his head for a better time.
“You could meet someone better, someone respectable,”
“Dad, I’m not respectable,” Kraglin interjects, starts to push his chair back from the table.
“You need a nice man,” his mother says earnestly, and that’s it. Kraglin’s chin drops as he says low and firm, “He’s mine, and I don’t,” Kraglin's eyes narrow “want a nice man.”
“Aw, darling,” Kraglin starts at the sound of Yondu's smug drawl, looks up to see him grinning down broader than the cat that got the cream. “You say the sweetest things.”
Then Yondu stalks over and Kraglin’s being kissed, deep and wet and filthy, Yondu’s ragged nails biting into his cheek. Kraglin gasps into his mouth, pushes up into him as he clutches for the edge of his stupid fur jacket.
When they break apart, Yondu stares at him for a long moment, and then pulls him abruptly to his feet.
“Y’know, I’m feeling a little tired, need to take a load off and all,” Yondu smirks sideways at Kraglin, sneaks in an unabashed grope at his backside. Kraglin rolls his eyes, then turns to give his parents a weak apologetic smile.
“We’re gonna go to the guest room,” he says. He’ll talk with them tomorrow, try to smooth things over, but somehow in spite of it all he just can’t bring himself to regret this.
“Yes, long journey blah blah blah,” Yondu adds as he starts to pull Kraglin along, then stops when he realizes he doesn’t know quite where they’re going.
“G'night,” Kraglin strides towards the back room, “See you in the morning.”
When the door closes behind them, Kraglin turns to pin a smirking Yondu to the wall. It only makes him smirk wider.
“Seems like they ain’t s’fond of me,” Yondu doesn’t look particularly bothered by this. Kraglin shakes his head.
"They just, they’ve been farmers here their whole lives, and have this idea of what we should be,” he says, “But I left it all behind years ago. Don't care who they think I should be with, I ain't gonna let them change my mind.”
Yondu seems less interested in this conversation with every passing minute, squirming in Kraglin's grasp as he reaches out to pull Kraglin’s hips into his.
“Gonna take more than that t’scare me off,” he husks out, lets his eyes hood. “So, ya gonna kiss me now or what?”
And Kraglin’s grinning and he grabs Yondu’s wandering hands to pin them against the wall and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.