Maybe he should be angry at Rocket for more of this. For stealing batteries they didn't need, for outright insulting the Sovereign for no other reason than because he could, for fighting with Peter over the Milano's controls and helping wreck them on this stupid planet in the first place. For killing Ravagers. Maybe he should be angry at him or blame him, but he isn't and he doesn't want to. They've all done some stupid shit, whether it was necessary or just out of spite, but no one ever expects for it to feed into things so far in front of them that they can't see where the bottom falls out. None of this was really Rocket's fault and Peter knows it. If he wants someone to blame that bad all he's gotta do is look in a mirror.
Peter snorts softly and shoves his fists deep in his pockets. "On a ship like that, all you need is just a few too many assholes with more balls than brains." It's an echo of something Yondu told him once, Peter all of eight years old and staring up at Yondu caught somewhere between wide eyed fear and angry determination to get back to Earth. And don't'chu be one of them assholes, boy, 'cause I ain't mind havin' one less belly to keep full. "Once a fire like that gets started, it's gonna be a bloodbath any way you slice it."
It was easier once to believe that Yondu only kept him around because he was useful but part of him, some tiny little flicker hiding behind his breastbone, always knew that wasn't a whole truth. Yondu was an asshole on even his best day, sharp and mean and prickly, delighting in winding up whoever he could just for kicks. He might have told Peter he was only good for squeezing into tight spaces and he might have threatened to eat him, to kill him, whenever he didn't want to toe the line, but Yondu still raised him, still taught him to shoot and fly and fight and steal. Yondu taught him to survive and maybe he couldn't risk losing face by being soft, maybe he didn't know how to be soft, but he cared. Even if Peter had been stupid and stubborn enough to dig his feet in over it not looking how he thought it was suppose to, he knows Yondu always cared.
"But I guess it doesn't matter much now, huh?" He pretends not to notice how tight his voice sounds just on the edges, threatening to collapse no matter how hard Peter is trying to force his tone to stay casual. Luckily he thinks he has a pretty good chance of Rocket pretending not to notice it either.
The air is blessedly clearer up ahead, the mess of bodies eventually thinning out and giving way instead to the chaos of broken tree limbs the Milano left behind on her clumsy crash landing. If they didn't know they were walking in the right direction before, the huge swath their ship savagely cleared would have solidly confirmed it and Peter can't help but think that it was lucky they only broke through mostly uninhabited forest. His shoulders feel heavy enough without adding the destruction of another city full of people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Ozone and scorched metal might be worlds better to have stuck in your nose than rotting bodies, but there's still something ugly that twists in his stomach for it all the same. He's never liked seeing the Milano take damage, even from the very start when he managed to pry ownership of her out of Yondu's hands, and it's not exactly a secret that Peter never learned how to let things go. Especially not now, not when he's desperately in need of something familiar to cling to, something to prove that his memories are real and reassure him that he won't forget. He got his second chance with the Milano back on Xandar. He can't help but hope that with Rocket at his side to fit the pieces back together, he might get a third.
Still, he can't help but let out a low whistle when they finally make it to the clearing the put the Milano down in, his hands on his hips as his eyes take in the mess they had to leave her in and his stomach turns over a little for how much worse the damage is than he remembers. "We sure did a number on her this time, didn't we?" If Rocket thinks they can get her back in the air again, Peter believes him, but that doesn't make it look any less impossible. "Fuck."
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Peter snorts softly and shoves his fists deep in his pockets. "On a ship like that, all you need is just a few too many assholes with more balls than brains." It's an echo of something Yondu told him once, Peter all of eight years old and staring up at Yondu caught somewhere between wide eyed fear and angry determination to get back to Earth. And don't'chu be one of them assholes, boy, 'cause I ain't mind havin' one less belly to keep full. "Once a fire like that gets started, it's gonna be a bloodbath any way you slice it."
It was easier once to believe that Yondu only kept him around because he was useful but part of him, some tiny little flicker hiding behind his breastbone, always knew that wasn't a whole truth. Yondu was an asshole on even his best day, sharp and mean and prickly, delighting in winding up whoever he could just for kicks. He might have told Peter he was only good for squeezing into tight spaces and he might have threatened to eat him, to kill him, whenever he didn't want to toe the line, but Yondu still raised him, still taught him to shoot and fly and fight and steal. Yondu taught him to survive and maybe he couldn't risk losing face by being soft, maybe he didn't know how to be soft, but he cared. Even if Peter had been stupid and stubborn enough to dig his feet in over it not looking how he thought it was suppose to, he knows Yondu always cared.
"But I guess it doesn't matter much now, huh?" He pretends not to notice how tight his voice sounds just on the edges, threatening to collapse no matter how hard Peter is trying to force his tone to stay casual. Luckily he thinks he has a pretty good chance of Rocket pretending not to notice it either.
The air is blessedly clearer up ahead, the mess of bodies eventually thinning out and giving way instead to the chaos of broken tree limbs the Milano left behind on her clumsy crash landing. If they didn't know they were walking in the right direction before, the huge swath their ship savagely cleared would have solidly confirmed it and Peter can't help but think that it was lucky they only broke through mostly uninhabited forest. His shoulders feel heavy enough without adding the destruction of another city full of people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Ozone and scorched metal might be worlds better to have stuck in your nose than rotting bodies, but there's still something ugly that twists in his stomach for it all the same. He's never liked seeing the Milano take damage, even from the very start when he managed to pry ownership of her out of Yondu's hands, and it's not exactly a secret that Peter never learned how to let things go. Especially not now, not when he's desperately in need of something familiar to cling to, something to prove that his memories are real and reassure him that he won't forget. He got his second chance with the Milano back on Xandar. He can't help but hope that with Rocket at his side to fit the pieces back together, he might get a third.
Still, he can't help but let out a low whistle when they finally make it to the clearing the put the Milano down in, his hands on his hips as his eyes take in the mess they had to leave her in and his stomach turns over a little for how much worse the damage is than he remembers. "We sure did a number on her this time, didn't we?" If Rocket thinks they can get her back in the air again, Peter believes him, but that doesn't make it look any less impossible. "Fuck."